Death of her past, death of her place among good
people, death of her friendship, death of hope--she sat there with her face
turned toward the far-away, smiling mesa where she had been happy, and wailed
softly to herself as the women of her tribe had wailed when sorrow came to
them in the days that were gone.
All through the afternoon she sat there with her back to the lone pine tree
and her face turned toward the southeast, while the little black dog lay at
her feet and slept. From the cabin Ramon watched her, stubbornly waiting until
she would come down to him of her own accord. She would come--of that he was
sure. She would come if he convinced her that he would not go up and coax her
to come. Ramon had known many girls who were given to sulking over what he
considered their imaginary wrongs, and he was very sure that he knew women
better than they knew themselves. She would come, give her time enough, and
she could not fling at him then any taunt that he had been over-eager.
Certainly she would come--she was a woman!
But the shadow of the pines lengthened until they lay like long fingers across
the earth; and still she did not come. Bill Holmes and Luis, secure in the
knowledge that Ramon was on guard against any unlooked-for visitors, slept
heavily on the crude bunks in the cabin.
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