Rickard did not feel called upon to question the adjective. The evil place would be closed; the commandant would see to that. He asked about the dead man’s children, if they were still at the adobe—
“An Indian woman, their only neighbor, is with them. They will be cared for. Would the señor give his respected permission for notices to be posted about the camp? A description of the Indian, a reward for his capture; the favor would be inestimable.”
Rickard took the placard, written in fairly correct English and Spanish. The government of Mexico was calling its people to capture “One Felipe, Indian, belonging to the tribe of Cocopahs. His skin dark to blackness, with high cheek-bones, and an old fading scar, bluish, which runs from mouth to ear. Five feet, eight inches tall, with black hair reaching below his shoulders. One hundred dollars reward for his arrest, or apprehension. When last seen, he was wearing blue cotton trousers, a faded cotton shirt. The fugitive speaks Spanish, a little broken English and several Indian dialects.”
The two solemn rurales stood at attention as the resplendant officer repeated his convictions.
“He is somewhere in the river-bed, otherwise we would have found him. The thick undergrowth shelters him, señor. He is skulking somewhere between Hamlin’s and Maldonado’s. He has had a start of twenty-four to thirty-six hours, maybe more, but then—our horses, señor! If we may be allowed to post these notices, we will then push up to Hamlin’s Crossing. A posse is scouring the country around Maldonado’s. He will not escape.”
Rickard gave the card back to the pompous little officer whose sword and spurs clanked as he bowed over it. He thanked the señor eternally for his attention and courtesy. He saluted again, wheeled, marching out of the ramada, with his stage-soldiers.
Rickard saw the notice later that day. It was nailed to the back platform of the Palmyra. He was on Marshall’s trail, his chief having failed to keep an appointment with him. They were to test the gate that afternoon; Marshall was returning soon to Tucson.
Rickard found Claudia in the darkened car reading a note from her husband. With a rising inflection that did not escape him, she told her visitor that her husband had been called to Yuma on business.
“Oh, that’s so,” cooperated Rickard, concealing his amusement at Marshall’s truancy. “I’d forgotten about that business.” Claudia Marshall had reason for her anxiety. But not for wifely worry would he mention that forgotten appointment at the river!
“He may be kept late, he says.” Rickard was conscious that she was watching his face. “He says not to wait up. That means late hours. Oh, Tod ought not! Every time, his cough comes back—” He had caught her off guard. Her fears were a crucifixion.