e musing voice of the
old cattleman, "I wonder if she'll like the country!" They reiterated
themselves over and over; and always as refrain his own confident
reply, "Like the country? Sure! Why SHOULDN'T she?"

And then he recalled the summer just passing, and the woman who had
made no fuss. Chance remarks of hers came back to him, remarks whose
meaning he had not at the time grasped, but which now he saw were
desperate appeals to his understanding. He had known his desert. He
had never known hers.

With an exclamation Buck Johnson turned abruptly back to the arroyo.
Button followed him, mildly curious, certain that his master's
reappearance meant a summons for himself.

Down the miniature cliff the man slid, confidently, without hesitation,
sure of himself. His shoulders held squarely, his step elastic, his
eye bright, he walked to the fearful, shapeless bundle now lying
motionless on the flat surface of the alkali.

Brent Palmer had fallen into a grim silence, but Estrella still moaned.
The cattleman drew his knife and ripped loose the bonds. Immediately
the flaps of the wet rawhide fell apart, exposing to the new daylight
the two bound together. Buck Johnson leaned over to touch the woman's
shoulder.

"Estrella," said he gently.

Her eyes came open with a snap, and stared into his, wild with the
surprise of his return.

"Estrella," he repeated, "how old are you?"

She gulped down a sob, unable to comprehend the purport of his question.

"How old are you, Estrella?" he repeated again.

"Twenty-one," she gasped finally.

"Ah!" said he.

He stood for a moment in deep thought, then began methodically, without
haste, to cut loose the thongs that bound the two together.

When the man and the woman were quite freed, he stood for a moment, the
knife in his hand, looking down on them. Then he swung himself into
the saddle and rode away, straight down the narrow arroyo, out beyond
its lower widening, into the vast plains the hither side of the
Chiricahuas. The alkali dust was snatched by the wind from beneath his
horse's feet. Smaller and smaller he dwindled, rising and falling,
rising and falling in the monotonous cow-pony's lope. The heat shimmer
veiled him for a moment, but he reappeared. A mirage concealed him,
but he emerged on the other side of it. Then suddenly he was gone.
The desert had swallowed him up.

End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Arizona Nights, by Stewart Edward