“She has gained this knowledge from no word of mine,” said Poindexter, calmly.  “Right or wrong, I have kept my promise to you.  I have as much reason to accuse you of betraying my secret in this,” he added coldly, as he took another letter from his pocket and handed it to Don Jose.

It seemed briefer and colder, but was neither.  It reminded Poindexter that as he had again deceived her she must take the government of her affairs in her own hands henceforth.  She abandoned all the furniture and improvements she had put in Los Cuervos to him, to whom she now knew she was indebted for them.  She could not thank him for what his habitual generosity impelled him to do for any woman, but she could forgive him for misunderstanding her like any other woman, perhaps she should say, like a child.  When he received this she would be already on her way to her old home in Kentucky, where she still hoped to be able by her own efforts to amass enough to discharge her obligations to him.

“She does not speak of her husband, this woman,” said Don Jose, scanning Poindexter’s face.  “It is possible she rejoins him, eh?”

“Perhaps in one way she has never left him, Don Jose,” said Poindexter, with grave significance.

Don Jose’s face flushed, but he returned carelessly, “And the rancho, naturally you will not buy it now?”

“On the contrary, I shall abide by my offer,” said Poindexter, quietly.

Don Jose eyed him narrowly, and then said, “Ah, we shall consider of it.”

He did consider it, and accepted the offer.  With the full control of the land, Captain Poindexter’s improvements, so indefinitely postponed, were actively pushed forward.  The thick walls of the hacienda were the first to melt away before them; the low lines of corral were effaced, and the early breath of the summer trade winds swept uninterruptedly across the now leveled plain to the embarcadero, where a newer structure arose.  A more vivid green alone marked the spot where the crumbling adobe walls of the casa had returned to the parent soil that gave it.  The channel was deepened, the lagoon was drained, until one evening the magic mirror that had so long reflected the weary waiting of the Blue Grass Penelope lay dull, dead, lustreless, an opaque quagmire of noisome corruption and decay to be put away from the sight of man forever.  On this spot the crows, the titular tenants of Los Cuervos, assembled in tumultuous congress, coming and going in mysterious clouds, or laboring in thick and writhing masses, as if they were continuing the work of improvement begun by human agency.  So well had they done the work that by the end of a week only a few scattered white objects remained glittering on the surface of the quickly drying soil.  But they were the bones of the missing outcast, Spencer Tucker!

*****