Mr. Rumford shrugged. "Perhaps a mine, maybe lost Spanish gold. No one knows for sure."
"It's just as I thought. What you're saying is that no one knows anything for a fact."
"Well, there's no tangible proof, if that's what you're asking, but there's evidence enough to make me consider that there might be some truth in the tale."
"No, no. I will not go along with you on this unless you can give me something substantial," Mr. Carruthers challenged.
Mr. Rumford shook his head. "I, too, am a bit skeptical, but bear in mind that this is a legend that will not die." He turned to the window, suddenly pensive. "I personally witnessed a man crawling out of the desert, raving like a lunatic, swearing he'd seen a lush, green valley hidden by twin peaks in the middle of the desert, and that he'd entered the face of the mountain."
"Nonsense!" Carruthers said scornfully. "The man had probably been too long in the sun, and it had addled his brain."
"Maybe, maybe not," Mr. Rumford replied. "But that man had a nugget clutched in his hand that was the purest gold I've ever seen. Explain that if you can." He shifted his weight. "I'll tell you something else. I met up with an Indian who scouted for the army over at Ft. Bliss. He was a Mescalero Apache, and he swore the Perdenelas do exist. Told me there was bad blood between them and the Chiricahua Apache-something about trouble between the old chief and his second wife. It seems she was from the Chiricahua tribe and was jealous of the chief's son by his first wife. Apparently she and her son were forced to go back to her tribe in shame. He said the young chief would appear when the tribe needed him. If the old chief is dead, I reckon they'll be needing him now."
"Unquestionably a yarn made up by someone with a superstitious mind," Mr. Carruthers stated emphatically. "But it makes .a good tale."
"I don't know. That Apache was mighty fidgety and nervous, looking around to see if anyone was listening as he told me the story. And I've learned over the years that it takes a lot to scare an Apache."
"You will never make me believe these yarns of hidden treasures and mysterious Indian tribes. This is the nineteenth century, not the Dark Ages," Mr. Carruthers said firmly.
Horace Rumford turned to Makinna and asked, "Does my tale tap into your sense of adventure, Mrs. Hillyard? Aren't you just a little captivated by the thought of a secret Indian tribe and hidden treasure?"
She shuddered. "I'm afraid I'll have to go along with Mr. Carruthers on this. I saw my first Indians at the way station at Manora, Texas, and they were certainly not mysterious or captivating but wretched and pitiable. They looked lean and hungry and desperate for a crust of bread. One of them looked at me with those dark, piercing eyes, and I was terrified."
"But you defended the Indians just a while ago," he reminded her.
"To defend their right to this land is not the same as being eager to keep company with them on it. No, I want nothing to do with any Indians, least of all your dangerous, feuding Perdenelas and Apaches."
The man sitting across from Makinna chose that moment to remove his hat and place it on his lap. And Makinna looked into the darkest, most contemptuous eyes she'd ever seen. The man's face was bronzed, his cheekbones high, and his hair even blacker than his eyes.
In spite of his manner of dress, there was no mistaking the fact that he was an Indian.
Fear clutched her heart, and Makinna pressed her back against the seat to gain as much distance as she could in such a limited space. She quickly glanced at the other two men, who appeared to be as shocked as she was.
After a heavy silence, Mr. Rumford was the first to speak. "Sir, we have not been introduced, since you were asleep when we boarded. Name's Rumford, and this is Mr. Carruthers." He chose not to introduce Makinna.
The Indian did not offer his name or acknowledge the introduction except with the slightest nod of his head.
This did not deter Mr. Rumford. "You from these parts?"
The Indian nodded.
Mr. Rumford prodded further. "El Paso?"
"That general vicinty."
Makinna had averted her eyes from the Indian, but she now looked at him. His voice was deep, but what mystified her was that he'd spoken with a decided English accent.
"You been abroad?" Mr. Carruthers asked, eyeing the Indian's fine clothes. He, too, had detected the English accent.
"Yes. I have."
Mr. Rumford continued his questioning. "Sounds like you spent a good deal of time in England-is that right?"
The Indian drew in a long-suffering breath. "Yes." It was obvious he did not want to make conversation with his traveling companions.