“If you are so busy, Señor Maldonado,” suggested Rickard, “I can help you. I’ll send down a few men to help search. How many would you like?”
He expected a minute’s hesitation, but there was none. Oh, it was not necessary. Later, maybe, he would call on señor but it chanced that next week, or the next, a squad of rurales was to be there for that very purpose sent for by Maldonado. Oh, he was awake to his duty! The señor would be satisfied. There would be no more drunken Indians.
“Slick,” thought Rickard.
The woman was waiting by the oleander with glasses. She filled them from an olla hanging in the shade of the tree. It was cold as if iced.
Rickard saw her shrink every time she had to pass Maldonado. Obviously, the fellow was a brute. She was aware of his displeasure. She winced at a word from him.
Both men were glad to go. Rickard left a piece of silver in the woman’s hand. He hoped Maldonado had not observed him.
They were riding away when a cry broke the stillness of the air. “Hark, what was that?” MacLean turned a shocked face toward Rickard. “A woman?”
It was anguished, strangled almost at birth. The men waited, but there was silence in the patio.
“He got that money all right,” speculated Rickard.
“Struck her!”