Even the ready smile faded from Mrs. Baxter’s lips as she replied hesitatingly and submissively:  “I thought you knew already that Spencer had given this ranch to me.  I sold it to Don Jose to get the money for us to go away with.  It was Spencer’s idea—­”

“You lie!” said Mrs. Tucker.

There was a dead silence.  The wrathful blood that had quickly mounted to Mrs. Baxter’s cheek, to Patterson’s additional bewilderment, faded as quickly.  She did not lift her eyes again to Mrs. Tucker’s, but, slowly raising herself from her seat, said, “I wish to God I did lie; but it’s true.  And it’s true that I never touched a cent of the money, but gave it all to him!” She laid her hand on Patterson’s arm, and said, “Come! let us go,” and led him a few steps towards the gateway.  But here Patterson paused, and again passed his hand over his melancholy brow.  The necessity of coherently and logically closing the conversation impressed itself upon his darkening mind.  “Then you don’t happen to have heard anything of Spencer?” he said sadly, and vanished with Mrs. Baxter through the gate.

Left alone to herself, Mrs. Tucker raised her hands above her head with a little cry, interlocked her rigid fingers, and slowly brought her palms down upon her upturned face and eyes, pressing hard as if to crush out all light and sense of life before her.  She stood thus for a moment motionless and silent, with the rising wind whispering without and flecking her white morning dress with gusty shadows from the arbor.  Then, with closed eyes, dropping her hands to her breast, still pressing hard, she slowly passed them down the shapely contours of her figure to the waist, and with another cry cast them off as if she were stripping herself of some loathsome garment.  Then she walked quickly to the gateway, looked out, returned to the corridor, unloosening and taking off her wedding-ring from her finger as she walked.  Here she paused, then slowly and deliberately rearranged the chairs and adjusted the gay-colored rugs that draped them, and quietly re-entered her chamber.

Two days afterwards the sweating steed of Captain Poindexter was turned loose in the corral, and a moment later the captain entered the corridor.  Handing a letter to the decrepit Concha, who seemed to be utterly disorganized by its contents, and the few curt words with which it was delivered, he gazed silently upon the vacant bower, still fresh and redolent with the delicacy and perfume of its graceful occupant, until his dark eyes filled with unaccustomed moisture.  But his reverie was interrupted by the sound of jingling spurs without, and the old humor struggled back in his eyes as Don Jose impetuously entered.  The Spaniard started back, but instantly recovered himself.

“So I find you here.  Ah! it is well!” he said passionately, producing a letter from his bosom.  “Look!  Do you call this honor?  Look how you keep your compact!”

Poindexter coolly took the letter.  It contained a few words of gentle dignity from Mrs. Tucker, informing Don Jose that she had only that instant learned of his just claims upon Los Cuervos, tendering him her gratitude for his delicate intentions, but pointing out with respectful firmness that he must know that a moment’s further acceptance of his courtesy was impossible.