Mrs. Adams, flushed, and the tears came to her eyes. "I didn't dare
think about that part of it. I was afraid of you. I got so I couldn't
sleep, worrying about what might happen to you when you were away. And
you always came back, but you never said where you'd been or what you'd
done. I couldn't stand it. If you had only told me--even about the
men--that you were paid to kill, I might have stood it. But you never
said a word. The wives of the American folks down there wouldn't speak
to me. And the Mexican women hated me. I was the wife of Jim Waring,
'the killer.' I think I went crazy."

"Well, I never did believe in talking shop, Annie."

"That's just it. You were always polite--and calling what you did,
'shop'! I don't believe you ever cared for a single person on this
earth!"

"You ought to know, Annie. But we won't argue that. Don't act as though
you had to defend yourself. I am not blaming you--now. You have
explained. I did miss the boy, though. Are you doing well here?"

"It was hard work at first. But I never did write to father to help me."

"You might have written to me. When did the boy go to work? He's
eighteen, isn't he?"

Mrs. Adams smiled despite herself. "Yes, this fall. He started in with
the Starr people at the spring round-up."

"Couldn't he help you here?"