“Bread, señora, bread, señora!”
Her gun in one hand, firmly clenched, she groped in a starch box with her left for the bread. Then, swift as a shot, she opened the rear door and threw the soggy loaf of her own making into the gathering shadows.
“There, bread!” she cried. She heard the sound of running steps. Then fell a silence that pounded at her ears. She stood it as long as she could. She had to see if he had gone; what was he doing? She peered through the front screen door. On the ground, close by, sat the Indian, tearing his loaf, gnawing it like a beast, looking the beast, his eyes wild and menacing.
She shivered. “Go away,” she said, pointing to the river-growth with her revolver. “Man come back; soon!”
He grabbed up his loaf to his cotton shirt, and ran toward the river-bank, a dark clump of willows receiving him. Even then she was afraid to leave the door. He might come back. She stood there, her eyes fixed on that clump of willows which had swallowed him, as the desert stars came pricking through the soft drop-curtain of the sky. Her eyes had to strain through the uncertain light, pale starshine and vague twilight. She could barely make out the outlines of the shrubs.
Once she thought he was returning; there was a movement in the willows as a breeze waved the supple branches. Her finger sought the trigger. Cold they were, and stiff. Suppose she could not press it? Perhaps she could not shoot! Her legs, too, were numb from standing. She wanted a chair, but her eyes must not leave for one second that dark spot of bank. She remembered a pine box she used for a supplementary table. If she could but reach that! Her unoccupied hand groped through the darkness. Then she tried her foot. A sharp broken scream burst from her. She shook,—with fear, but of course he could not have crept in! She would have heard him break the door. Foolish, to be so nervous. That was only the box she had felt, the box with a woolen cloth over it, the green and yellow portière from Coulter’s, Chicago. Was it Coulter’s? Where was Coulter’s? How her head pounded!
She must not let herself go like that. She must control herself. She had a long night ahead of her.
For an instant, as she relaxed her stiffened muscles toward the pine box, her sharp gaze wavered from the dark spot on the river-bank. She pulled herself together sharply; she must not let him surprise her, steal on her. She must be on guard. Her finger found the trigger again. Why had she sent Sam? Oh, why had she ever let him leave her?
The stars were coming out in numbers now. Increasingly, their lamps fell on the cleared space between the tent and the dark river-line. A broad band of star-washed sand lay between her and the skulking figure in the brush, the Indian who had murdered Maldonado. She would see him the instant he stepped out on that belt of light. If she kept her eyes fixed—they must not stray. Before he could reach her, she would shoot. She would have no scruples. He had had none for that man and woman down yonder. She wondered if they were young, if it was for bread he had killed them.
Why was she alone? She couldn’t remember. It made her head hurt to think. She was always alone in this desert. Why had she made Sam bring her to such a place, when he wanted to stay home with the folks and the doctor? Why had they come? Oh, yes, she remembered. Their tent had blown down, their Nebraska tent. Funny to see it come down, the dishes all smashing. What a noise they made. It made her laugh to think of it. How it made her laugh! Ssh. She must not laugh. He would hear her over there. He would come creeping back, to leer at her.