“Was, I knowed you was strange because you come in by the river. Travelers nowadays go round the mountain. Prospectors never come any more. The glory of Picacho has faded.”
“Aren’t they working the mill?” queried Adam, quickly.
“Haw! Haw! The mill will never grind with ore that is gone! No work these last five years. The mill has rusted out—fallen to ruin. And the gold of old Picacho is gone. But, stranger, she hummed while she lasted. Millions in gold—millions in gold!”
He wagged his lean old head and chuckled.
“I knew a man here once by the name of Arallanes. What has become of him?”
“Arallanes? Wal, I do recollect him. I was watchman at the mill an’ he was boss of the gang. His daughter was knifed by a greaser named Felix.... Arallanes left here these ten years ago an’ he’s never been back.”
“His—daughter!... Is that her grave back there—the sunken mound of sand—with the wooden cross?”
“I reckon that’s Margarita’s grave. She was a pretty wench—mad about men—an’ there’s some who said she got her just deserts.”
The broad river gleamed yellow through the breaks in the mesquites. Ponderous and swirling, it glided on round the bend. Adam’s gaze then sought the peak. The vast, stormy, purple mass, like a mountain of cloud, shone with sunset crown of silver.
Somewhere near, hidden by the trees, a Mexican broke the stillness with song—wild, sensuous, Spanish love, in its haunting melody.