farm off to the northwest and whose connection to San Juan lay in the
fact that an old maid daughter taught the school here; various other
individuals and family groups to be disposed of with a word and a
careless wave of a cigarette. Already for the fair stranger Ignacio
had skimmed the cream of the cream.

The girl sighed, as though her question had been no idle one and his
reply had disappointed her. For a moment her brows gathered slightly
into a frown that was like a faint shadow; then she smiled again
brightly, a quick smile which seemed more at home in her eyes than the
frown had been.

Ignacio glanced from her to the weeds, then, squinting his eyes, at the
sun. There was ample time, it would be cooler presently. So,
describing a respectful arc about her, he approached the Mission wall,
slipped into the shade, and eased himself in characteristic indolence
against the white-washed adobe. She appeared willing to talk with him;
well, then, what pleasanter way to spend an afternoon? She sought to
learn this and that of a land new to her; who to explain more knowingly
than Ignacio Chavez? After a little he would pluck some of the newly
opened yellow rosebuds for her, making her a little speech about
herself and budding flowers. He would even, perhaps, show her his
bells, let her hear just the suspicion of a note from each. . . .

A sharp sound came to her abruptly out of the utter stillness but meant
nothing to her. She saw a flock of pigeons rise above the roofs of the
more distant houses, circle, swerve, and disappear beyond the
cottonwoods. She noted that Ignacio was no longer leaning lazily
against the wall; he had stiffened, his mouth was a little open,
breathless, his attitude that of one listening expectantly, his eyes