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Page 8
She got to her feet and, walking swiftly, moved on, still farther from
San Juan. The act was without premeditation; her whole being was
insistent upon it. She wondered if it was the sheepman from Las
Palmas; if he had, perhaps, a wife and children. Then she stopped
suddenly; a new thought had come to her. Strange, inexplicable even,
it had not suggested itself before. She wondered who the other man
was, the man who had done the killing. And what had happened to him?
Had he fled? Had other men grappled with him, disarmed him, made of
him a prisoner to answer for what he had done? What had been his
motive, what passion had actuated him Surely not just the greed for
gold which the bell-ringer had suggested! What sort of creature was he
who, in cold, calculating blood could murder a man for a handful of
money?
There was nothing to answer unless she could catch the thought of
Ignacio Chavez in the ringing of his bell. She moved on again,
hurrying.
Following the arroyo, she had come to the first of the little, smooth
hills, the lomas as the men on the stage had named them. Through them
the dry watercourse wriggled, carrying its green pennons along its
marge. She went up gentle slopes mantled with bleached grass which
directly under her eyes was white in the glare of the sun. But the sun
was very low now, very fierce and red, an angry god going down in
temporary defeat, but defiant to the last, filled with threat for
to-morrow; at a little distance he tinged the world with his own fiery
hue. The far western uplands cut the great disk squarely in two; down
slipped the half wafer until it seemed that just a bright signal-fire
was kindled upon the ridge. And as that faded from her eyes the slow
sobbing of the swinging bell was like a wail for the death of the day.
She had removed her hat, fancying that already the earth was throwing
off its heat, that a little coolness and freshness was coming down to
meet her from the mountains. She turned her eyes toward them and it
was then, just after the sunset, that she saw a man riding toward her.
He was still far off when she first glimpsed him, just cresting one of
the higher hills, so that for him the sun had not yet set. For she
caught the glint of light flaming back from the silver chasings of his
bridle and from the barrel of the gun across the hollow of his left
arm. She did not believe that he had seen her in the shadow of the
cottonwoods.
If she went on she must meet him presently. She glanced back over her
shoulder, noting how far she had come from the town. It was very still
again; the bell had ceased its complaint; the hoofs of the approaching
horse seemed shod with felt, falling upon felt. She swung about and
walked back toward San Juan.
A little later she heard the man's voice, calling. Clearly to her,
since there was no one else. Why should he call to her? She gave no
sign of having heard, but walked on a trifle faster. She sensed that
he was galloping down upon her; still in the loose sand the hoof-beats
were muffled. Then when he called a second time she stopped and turned
and waited.
A splendid big fellow he was, she noted as he came on, riding a
splendid big horse. Man and beast seemed to belong to the desert; had
it not been for the glint of the sun she realized now, she probably
would not have distinguished their distant forms from the land across
which they had moved. The horse was a darkish, dull gray; the man,
boots, corduroy breeches, soft shirt, and hat, was garbed in gray or so
covered with the dust of travel as to seem so.
"What in the world are you doing way out here?" he called to her. And
then having come closer he reined in his horse, stared at her a moment
in surprised wonderment, swept off his hat and said, a shade awkwardly:
"I beg pardon. I thought you were some one else."
For her wide hat was again drooping about her face, and he had had just
the form of her and the white skirt and waist to judge by.
"It is all right," she said lightly. "I imagined that you had made a
mistake."
It was something of a victory over herself to have succeeded in
speaking thus carelessly. For there had been the impulse, a temptation
almost, just to stare back at the man as he had stared at her and in
silence. Not only was the type physically magnificent; to her it was,
like everything about her, new. And that which had held her at first
was his eyes. For it is not the part of youth to be stern-eyed; and
while this man could not be more than midway between twenty and thirty,
his eyes had already acquired the trick of being hard, steely,
suggesting relentlessness, stern and quick. Tall, lean-bodied, with
big calloused hands, as brown as an Indian, hair and eyes were
uncompromisingly black. He belonged to the southwestern wastes.
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