But he's been giving you some good bits
right along where he needed a Mexican type; and those scenes in the rocks the
other day was bandit stuff with you for lead. It'll be you or Miguel--the
Native Son, as they call him--and so far he's cast for another part. That's
the worst of Luck. He won't talk about what he's going to do till he's all
ready to do it."
There was a little further discussion. Ramon muttered a few sentences--rapid
instructions, Annie-Many-Ponies believed from the tone he used.
"All right, I'll keep you posted," Bill Holmes replied in English. And he
added as he started off, "You can send word by the squaw."
He went carefully back down the arroyo, keeping as much as possible in the
shade. Behind him stole Annie-Many-Ponies, noiseless as the shadow of a cloud.
Bill Holmes, she reflected angrily, had seen the day, not so far in the past,
when he was happy if the "squaw" but smiled upon him. It was because she had
repelled his sly lovemaking that he had come to speak of her slightingly like
that; she knew it. She could have named the very day when his manner toward
her had changed. Mingled with her hate and dread of him was a new contempt and
a new little anxiety over this clandestine intimacy between Ramon and him.
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