“Ah, but that will be a long time, señora! And you will have protection. You will get a divorce— He is your husband, señora? You are married to him?”
She screamed at him. MacLean looked up from his note-book. “A divorce?” She was approaching hysteria. “Si, señor, he is my husband. We were married in a church. Never would I get a divorce from my husband. No, not Lucrezia Maldonado.”
Rickard back-stepped, to calm her. It would be all right, anyway. She would be protected. He would see that Maldonado did not harm her. He would look out for her and the children, and she might stay here, in camp, until the thing was settled. In the meantime, she must rest—
He wanted to get rid of her. Maldonado and his villainy must wait. The Indians were waiting to be registered. They were to be sent to their camp, tribe by tribe. Forestier was waiting for him. MacLean was waiting—
“You will let me work for you, señor?”
“There’s always work. I won’t have to send my washing to Yuma, and I haven’t had a button sewed on for months—nor has MacLean, nor Jenks—you can darn their socks, and help Ling with the beds; we can keep you busy, señora. And you can go back to the children pretty soon.”
The terror was seizing her again. Before she could begin her pleading, he called to MacLean.
“Ask Ling to find a tent for Señora Maldonado. Tell him to give her a good meal.”
Her eyes appealed to Rickard over her shoulder. Her body wavered with fatigue. Her eyes were cavernous, with dark radiating shadows.
“How did you get here?”