Again he shook his head. "I can't. I—"
She questioned his hesitation with her eyes.
"I'll tell you when—when I feel better. Madre, I'm sick."
"I know," she said.
Then, turning to the driver, she gestured down the wagon-trail.
They drove through the morning woodlands, swung to the east, and crossed the ford. The clustered adobes of the Loring homestead glimmered in the sun. Corliss glanced across the river toward the Concho. Again the Señora Loring questioned him with a glance.
He shook his head. "Away—anywhere," he said, gesturing toward the horizon.
"You come home with me," she said quietly. "Nellie is not at the home to-day. You rest, and then perhaps you go to the Concho."
As they entered the gateway of the Loring rancho, Corliss made as though to dismount. The Señora Loring touched his arm. He shrugged his shoulders; then gazed ahead at the peaceful habitation of the old sheep-herder.
The Señora told the driver to tie the team and wait. Then she entered the house. Corliss gazed about the familiar room while she made coffee. Half starved, he ate ravenously the meal she prepared for him. Later, when she came and sat opposite, her plump hands folded in her lap, her whole attitude restful and assuring, he told her of the robbery, concealing nothing save the name of Fadeaway.