“Oh, it’s lovely.” She threw her arms around Blanco’s neck: he was nearer than any tree, and as unprotesting. She slapped him on the flank, climbed up, and dug him in the ribs to start him down the slope, jouncing uncomfortably.
It was quite dark when she trotted into the stable yard. The streets were quiet and lifeless. She tied up the horse and unsaddled him, then turned him into the corral, where he shook himself and walked over to the other side with a dignified, heavy gait. There was a light in the living-room, so she stepped up to the screen door and peered in. Tom was sitting on the cot with his head in his hands, and he didn’t look up when she knocked. Somewhat mystified, she called him and he raised his head.
“Come in,” he said, as if he did not recognize her.
It was very queer. Her clear sense of health and content evaporated. She stepped in and glanced around, at the bottle on the table and the glass on the floor next to his feet. Usually when Tom drank he grew jovial. Was he sick?
“Have a drink?” he said, dutifully.
“Not now, thanks. Not just before dinner.” Unbidden, she sat down in a hide chair and watched him curiously. “Say, what’s the matter with you? Don’t you feel well?”
“Me? I’m all right.” He leaned over and took the bottle by the neck. “I’m all right. I just got some private news, bad news, that’s all.”
“I’m sorry. Can I help?”
He shook his head. “Somebody’s dead.”
“Why? Do I know them?”