Her refrain was insistent. “The señor is lonely; you need a mujer.”
“No es posiblé,” his answer was rough to her savage, childish kindliness.
The señor was so kind, he would be kind to her sister—
“Por Dios, no!” cried Rickard.
Señora Maldonado gave a sharp intake of breath, an aborted scream. Rickard, too, saw a man’s figure outside the screen door. The Mexican woman pressed a frightened hand to her heart. Of course, it was the vengeful Maldonado—he would kill her—
“If I am intruding,” it was the voice of Hardin.
“Come right in,” welcomed Rickard. “Get along, señora.” The Maldonado slipped out into the night, her hand still against her heart.
Hardin, a roll of maps under his arm, entered with a rough sneer on his face. A dramatic scene, that, he had interrupted! And Rickard who did not like to have women in camp. White women!
Rickard, still sleepy, asked him to sit down.
“Thank you, no. I wanted to speak to you about those concrete aprons. They tell me you’ve given an order not to have them.”