“Ah, señor—so long ago and far away!” she said.
Adam whirled abruptly and, plunging into the thicket of mesquites, he tore a way through, unmindful of the thorns. When he reached his quarters there was blood on his hands and face, but the sting of the thorns was as nothing to the hurt in his heart. He lay down.
“Again!” he whispered. “Guerd has come—and it’s the same old story. Only worse!... But, it’s better so! I—I didn’t know—her!... Arallanes knew—he told me.... And I—I dreamed so many—many fool things. Yes—it’s better—better. I didn’t love her right. It—it was something she roused. I never loved her—but if I did love her—it’s gone. It’s not loss that—that stabs me now. It’s Guerd—Guerd! Again—and I ran off from him.... ‘So long ago and far away,’ she said! Are all women like that? I can’t believe it. I never will. I remember my mother.”
CHAPTER VI
That night in the dead late hours Adam suddenly awoke. The night seemed the same as all the desert nights—dark and cool under the mesquites—the same dead, unbroken silence. Adam’s keen intentness could not detect a slightest sound of wind or brush or beast. Something had pierced his slumbers, and as he pondered deeply there seemed to come out of the vagueness beyond that impenetrable wall of sleep a voice, a cry, a whisper. Had Margarita, sleeping or waking, called to him? Such queer visitations of mind, often repeated, had convinced Adam that he possessed a mystic power or sense.
When Adam awoke late, in the light of the sunny morning, unrealities of the night dispersed like the gray shadows and vanished. He arose eager, vigorous, breathing hard, instinctively seeking for action. The day was Sunday. Another idle wait, fruitful of brooding moods! But he vowed he would not go to the willow brakes, there to hide from Guerd and Collishaw. Let them have their say—do their worst! We would go up to Picacho and gamble and drink with the rest of the drifters. Merryvale’s words of desert-learned wisdom rang through Adam’s head. As for Margarita, all Adam wanted was one more look at her face, into her dusky eyes, and that would forever end his relation to her.
At breakfast Arallanes presented a thoughtful and forbidding appearance, although this demeanor was somewhat softened by the few times he broke silence. The señora’s impassive serenity lacked its usual kindliness, and her lowered eyes kept their secrets. Margarita had not yet arisen. Adam could not be sure there was really a shadow hovering over the home, or in his own mind, coloring, darkening his every prospect.
After breakfast he went out to stroll along the river bank and then around the village. He ascertained from Merryvale that Collishaw, Guerd, and their associates had found lodgings at different houses for the night, and after breakfast had left for the mining camp. As usual, Merryvale spoke pointedly: “You’re brother said they were goin’ to clear out the camp. An’ I reckon he didn’t mean greasers, but whisky an’ gold. Son, you stay away from Picacho to-day.” For once, however, the kind old man’s advice fell upon deaf ears. Adam had to fight his impatience to be off up the canyon; and only a driving need to see Margarita held him there. He walked to and fro, from village to river and back again. By and by he espied Arallanes and his wife, with their friends, dressed in their best, parading toward the little adobe church. Margarita was not with them.
Adam waited a little while, hoping to see her appear. He did not analyze his strong hope that she would go to church this Sunday as usual. But as no sign of her was forthcoming he strode down to the little brown house and entered at the open door.