"A soldier. He deserted from Fort Garland and was killed by some Mexicans. They buried him under a pile of stones."
"What a disagreeable place. It's like a cemetery for dead hopes. I won't go back; you'll have to take me around some other way."
"What are you afraid of?"
"I'm afraid of melancholy—I hate unhappiness. I was born to be amused—I won't be unhappy," she said almost fiercely. "Why should I be? I have everything in the world that most people want. If I see anything I want and haven't got, I go and get it."
"You're lucky."
She shrugged. "So people say. I do as I please. I always have and always will. You were surprised to see me here. I told you why I came. I wanted to see you. You were the only person in New York who did not bore me to extinction. If it gives me pleasure to be here, this is the place where I ought to be. That's logical, isn't it?"
"It sounds all right. But you won't stay here long," he said.
"Why not?"
"You couldn't stand it. There's nothing to do but ride."
"I'd rather ride than do anything else."