“He wearies me. Life—this place—wearies me.”
“Yes, and I weary you, too—now. Plain as day, it is.”
The Phillips woman smiled (she seldom laughed) and there was only cruelty in her smile—no kindliness, no womanly softness of any sort.
“My friend, soon there will be no 'you.' The night is coming and there will be no sunrise.”
A man dismounted at the gate and led his horse past the window to the stables in the cellar. He walked with a curious, halting pace.
“There's Jim Driscoll back already. Must bring news,” said Bell, leaving her hurriedly, and so neglecting to ask the meaning of her cryptic remark.
Rosa slipped in behind the bar, late that evening, beautifully gowned, and with her dark hair dressed high. Her vivid face glowed like a scarlet poppy and was bright with smiles. Three or four men in the crowded bar-room rose to their feet and drank to her bright eyes and strolled across to the bar.
“Soon now,” she whispered, “I shall sweep out the lights. Those two who have just entered—who are they?” She went across the room to the newcomers. “The senors may pay me for the drinks, if they desire,” she said to them, meaningly.
“La Rosita shall take what pleases her,” one of them laughed. Among the handful of coins and small nuggets he brought from his pocket was a bullet strung on a bit of dirty twine.
“Ah! a love token, senor?”