She followed me slowly into the bar-room, and when the man there went to the ambulance to speak to the captain, she crept out after him and stood in the sun till he returned.
"The poor woman," said I, compassionately; "how I pity her!"
"The poor woman," echoed the station-keeper; "those two Greasers have killed her just as dead as if they had beaten her brains out on the spot."
The shades of night were already falling around Mohawk Station when we reached it. It was quite a pretentious house, built of adobe, and boasting of but one story, of course; but it is not every one in Arizona who can build a house with four rooms,—if the doors do consist of old blankets, and the floor and ceiling, like the walls, of mud.
A discharged soldier kept the station now—a large yellow dog his sole companion. The man slept on the same bed that had borne Hendricks's corpse, and the cudgel, with the murdered man's blood dried on it, was lying at the foot of it.
"And where is his grave?" I asked.
The man's eye travelled slowly over the desolate landscape before us. There were sand, verde, and cactus, on one side of us, and there were sand, verde, and cactus, on the other.
"Well, really now, I couldn't tell. You see, I wasn't here when they put him in the ground, and I haven't thought of his grave since I come. Fact is, I've got to keep my eyes open for live Greasers and Pache-Indians, and don't get much time to hunt up dead folks's graves!"