suddenly; a new thought had come to her. Strange, inexplicable even,
it had not suggested itself before. She wondered who the other man
was, the man who had done the killing. And what had happened to him?
Had he fled? Had other men grappled with him, disarmed him, made of
him a prisoner to answer for what he had done? What had been his
motive, what passion had actuated him Surely not just the greed for
gold which the bell-ringer had suggested! What sort of creature was he
who, in cold, calculating blood could murder a man for a handful of
money?

There was nothing to answer unless she could catch the thought of
Ignacio Chavez in the ringing of his bell. She moved on again,
hurrying.

Following the arroyo, she had come to the first of the little, smooth
hills, the lomas as the men on the stage had named them. Through them
the dry watercourse wriggled, carrying its green pennons along its
marge. She went up gentle slopes mantled with bleached grass which
directly under her eyes was white in the glare of the sun. But the sun
was very low now, very fierce and red, an angry god going down in
temporary defeat, but defiant to the last, filled with threat for
to-morrow; at a little distance he tinged the world with his own fiery
hue. The far western uplands cut the great disk squarely in two; down
slipped the half wafer until it seemed that just a bright signal-fire
was kindled upon the ridge. And as that faded from her eyes the slow
sobbing of the swinging bell was like a wail for the death of the day.

She had removed her hat, fancying that already the earth was throwing
off its heat, that a little coolness and freshness was coming down to
meet her from the mountains. She turned her eyes toward them and it