Rickard pulled himself free from the solemnity of that moment. They were to be friends—first! He sought her eyes. Good! They were not to be enemies any more!
He put out his hand. “Good night!” To both, it carried the sound of “I love you!” She put her hand in his, then tore her fingers away, furious with them for clinging. Where was her pride? When he had time!
She fled into her tent, his look from which all laughter had faded, following her.
Neither of them had seen Gerty Hardin watching them from her tent door.
CHAPTER XXXIV
THE FACE IN THE WILLOWS
THAT evening, in her tent by the river-bed, Mrs. Parrish thought that she heard a noise outside. She had been lying down, a wet cloth pressed over her eyes which would twitch in spite of desperate effort. She had sent Sam to Yuma for ammonia and headache powders, and for valerian; the last for her nerves.
It was only the wind rustling the river willows, but it startled her every time. She wished that she had not let him go. The headache, the twitching, was easier to stand than loneliness. She kept her nerves on edge listening for noises. That noise again! Some one was surely prowling about the tent. She raised her head, straining her ears. There was no sound without. She was unstrung. All that excitement about the murder of Maldonado had made her scary. There, what was that?
She tore the wet rag from her eyes and jumped up. A face haggard and wild was staring at her through the screen-wire door. The twilight was lingering; the long warm dusk of the desert. She could see that it was an Indian, and her blood froze; for a purple scar twisted his face.
She had seen the rurales nail a notice on the tool house down the river that very morning. She had braved the fierce noon sun to read it. The description was burned in red letters on her memory. “High cheek-bones, long streaming hair. Faded cotton shirt, a scar from mouth to ear!”
“Bread,” the voice grated on her. “Dame el pan, señora. Love of Gord, bread, señora. Pi-why. La-hum-pah.”