Her name was Mary Gertling. Her short hair was neither black nor blonde, but there was a roll to it, down over her temples, that Elbert remembered as a sort of aim of all his sisters’ girl friends before he left. He forgot what Mary was saying for a minute, studying the creamy light through her skin. It made him remember the thin bowl of alabaster on the ceiling of the dining-room at home. She didn’t seem to mind his severe ways. She just couldn’t seem to believe it of him. He recalled the ominous signs which attended their riding into Nacimiento, the many pony tracks.
‘If I were you, I’d ask Miss Burton to turn around now and go back,’ he said.
‘But Florabel never would. She never turns back—in anything. She says her father is less than twenty miles from here.’
She talked up to him so trustingly. The little fawnskin coat covering her shoulders had that texture which draws the hand to touch. Her ways were swift and still; but Elbert had lost his revolution and his heart held hard as flint.
‘Come on, Mary!’ called Miss Florabel.
The three girls followed the Señora into the patio. Elbert stood in deep thought a moment, before he realized that Cal and Slim had closed in upon him.
‘Our little Elbert ain’t no hosstipath,’ said Slim. ‘I’ve seen smoother hands all around with hosses, but for women and motor trucks he’s faster than a coiled whip—’
‘Faster than the human eye,’ said Cal.
‘They belong to the Van Whipple Finishin’ School up in Tucson,’ Elbert said thoughtfully.
‘So we draws.’