Harboro and Sylvia were sitting on their balcony the second night before the election. A warm wind had been blowing and it was quite pleasant out of doors.
One of the corrals lay not far from the house on the Quemado Road. Mounted Mexicans had been riding past the house and on into the town all day, and, contrary to usual custom, they were not to be seen later in the day returning to the chaparral. They were being prepared to exercise their suffrage privileges.
As Harboro and Sylvia listened it was to be noted that over in the corral the several noises were beginning to be blended in one note. The barbecue fires were burning down; the evening meal had been served, with reserved supplies for late comers. Mezcal and cheap whiskey were being dispensed. A low hum of voices arose, with the occasional uplifting of a drunken song or a shout of anger.
Suddenly Harboro sat more erect. A shout had arisen over in the corral, and a murmur higher and more sinister than the dominant note of the place grew steadily in intensity. It came to a full stop when a pistol-shot arose above the lesser noises like a sky-rocket.
“He’s getting his work in,” commented Harboro. He spoke to himself. He had forgotten Sylvia for the moment.
“He? Who?” inquired Sylvia.
He turned toward her in the dusk and replied—with indifference in his tone now—“Fectnor.”
She shrank back so that her face would be out of his line of vision. “Fectnor!” she echoed.
“A fellow they’ve brought up from the interior to help with the election. A famous bad man, I believe.”
There was silence for a long interval. Harboro supposed the matter did not interest her; but she asked at length: “You know him, then?”