“Oh, Ban!”
“‘Tis the voice of the Butterfly; hear her declare, ‘I’ve come down to the earth; I am tired of the air’”
chanted Banneker’s voice in cheerful paraphrase. “Light and preen your wings, Butterfly.”
Their tone was that of comrades without a shade of anything deeper.
“Busy?” asked Io.
“Just now. Give me another five minutes.”
“I’ll go to the hammock.”
One lone alamo tree, an earnest of spring water amongst the dry-sand growth of the cactus, flaunted its bright verdency a few rods back of the station, and in its shade Banneker had swung a hammock for Io. Hitching her pony and unfastening her hat, the girl stretched herself luxuriously in the folds. A slow wind, spice-laden with the faint, crisp fragrancies of the desert, swung her to a sweet rhythm. She closed her eyes happily ... and when she opened them, Banneker was standing over her, smiling.
“Don’t speak to me,” she murmured; “I want to believe that this will last forever.”
Silent and acquiescent, he seated himself in a camp-chair close by. She stretched a hand to him, closing her eyes again.