he hoped, word that Carolyn June and Ophelia Cobb had heeded the
misleading message.

The sun crept across the western sky and dropped lower and lower until
it hung at last, a blazing disk of fire, close above the highest peaks
of the Costejo mountain range. The poplars in front of the house flung
slim black shadows across the low adobe buildings and splashed the tip
of their shade in the dust-cloud that filled with haze the corral a
hundred yards away. Sing Pete stepped from the door and beat a tattoo on
the iron triangle suspended by a piece of wire from the lowest branch of
a mesquit tree at the corner of the house, announcing by the metallic
clamor that the work of the day was finished and supper was ready and
waiting. Parker swung back the heavy gate at the corral entrance and the
dozen colts, sweat streaks on heads and backs and bellies where
hackamore, saddle and cinches told of the lessons of the afternoon,
pushing and jamming and with a clatter of hoofs, whirled out to freedom,
around the stable and down a lane into an open meadow.

Kicking off their chaps the cowboys tossed them on the riding gear,
piled already against the fence of the corral, and straggled stiffly
toward the house. On the wire enclosing the back yard Sing Pete had hung
a couple of heavy towels, coarse and long. Some basins and several
chunks of yellow laundry soap were on a bench beside an irrigation ditch
that ran along the fence just inside the gate. Old Heck, Parker and the
cowboys stopped at the ditch, pitched their hats on the grass and
dipping water from the ditch scoured the dust and sweat from their faces
and hands.

All were silent as if each was troubled with thoughts too solemn to be
spoken aloud.