d
straightway disappeared again. From the inner room came the sound of a
song. The young stranger with Malvey was good-looking--quite worth
changing her dress for. She hoped he would think her pretty. Most men
admired her--she was really beautiful in her dark, Southern way--and
some of them had given her presents--a cheap ring, a handkerchief from
Old Mexico, a pink and, to her, wonderful brush and comb. Boca
Dulzura--or "pretty mouth" of the Flores rancho--cared for no man, but
she liked men, especially when they gave her presents.

When she came from her room, Malvey laughingly accused her of "fixing
up" because of Pete, as he teased her about her gay rebosa and her
crimson sash. She affected scorn for his talk--but was naturally
pleased. And the young stranger was staring at her, which pleased her
still more.

"This here hombre is Pete," said Malvey. "He left his other name to
home." And he laughed raucously.

Pete bowed, taking the introduction quite seriously.

Boca was piqued. This young caballero did not seem anxious to know
her--like the other men. He did not smile.

"Pete," she lisped, with a tinge of mockery in her voice. "Pete has
not learned to talk yet--he is so young?"

Malvey slapped his thigh and guffawed. Pete stood solemnly eying him
for a moment. Then he turned to the girl. "I ain't used to talkin' to
women--'specially pretty ones--like you."

Boca clapped her hands. "There! 'Bool' Malvey has never said anything
so clever as that."

"Bool" Malvey frowned. But he was hungry, and Flores's wife was
preparing supper. Despite Boca's pretty mouth and fine dark eyes,
which invited to conversation, Pete felt very much alone--very much of
a stranger in this out-of-the-way household. He thought of his chum
Andy White, and of Ma Bailey and Jim, and the boys of the Concho. He
wondered what they were doing--if they were talking about him--and
Gary. It seemed a long time since he had thrown his hat in the corner
and pulled up his chair to the Concho table. He wished that he might
talk with some one--he was thinking of Jim Bailey--and tell him just
what there had been to the shooting. But with these folks . . .

The shadows were lengthening. Already the lamp on Flores's table was
lighted, there in the kitchen where Malvey was drinking wine with the
old Mexican. Pete had forgotten Boca--almost forgotten where he was
for the moment, when something touched his arm. He turned a star