She lifted the pictured face barely discernible now in the diminished light.
“And––the many will forget!” she repeated irritably. “The boy has the truth of it, but if she had lived, so terribly wicked,––so lost of God, I wonder if–––”
She lifted her face looking up at the still stars as if for light on a thought, then flung her hands out despairingly and turned away to the couch by the green bush of fragrant yellow bloom.
But not to sleep. Long after the Americanos were wrapped in slumber a little blaze sent glimmer of light through the undergrowth, and she saw Clodomiro stretched beside the fire. He had tossed a bit of greasewood on the coals that he might again study the face of El Gavilan.
She had heard him say that if no desert wind lifted the sand he could follow to that hidden nest of the Hawk. It was very dark now except for glimmer of stars through lacy, slow-drifting clouds,––there was no wind. Later there would be a waning moon! Much of every waking life is a dream, and her dreams were of the No Man’s Land of the desert,––the waterless trail from which she had been rescued for peace!
Twice during the night Kit roused from the depths sufficiently to realize that sleep is one of the greatest gifts to man. Once Clodomiro was stretched by the little fire inspecting the paper he could not read, the second time he thought Baby Bunting was nosing around trying to get close to human things. Both times he reached out his hands to the precious packs beside which he slept on the trail. All were safe, and he drifted again into a great ocean of slumber.
He was wakened at dawn by the voice of Cap Pike, keyed high for an ultra display of profanity.
“By the jumping Je-hosophat, I knew it!” he shrilled. “That’s your latest collection, begod! I hoped he wouldn’t, and knew he would! The all-firedest finest pair of mules on Granados, and every water bag in the outfit! Can you beat it?”
At the first shout Kit jumped to his feet, his eyes running rapidly over his pack saddle outfit. All was safe there, and as Billie lifted her head and looked at him drowsily over the edge of the wagon bed he realized that in the vital things of life all was well with his world.
“Let Sheba run your camp, and run it to hell, will you?” went on Cap Pike accusingly. He was thrashing around among the growth back of the Soledad outfit wagon where the mules had been tethered. “Two––four––six, and Baby Buntin’––yes sir! Lit out by the dark of the moon, and left neither hide nor hair,––”