Ignacio glanced from her to the weeds, then, squinting his eyes, at the
sun. There was ample time, it would be cooler presently. So,
describing a respectful arc about her, he approached the Mission wall,
slipped into the shade, and eased himself in characteristic indolence
against the white-washed adobe. She appeared willing to talk with him;
well, then, what pleasanter way to spend an afternoon? She sought to
learn this and that of a land new to her; who to explain more knowingly
than Ignacio Chavez? After a little he would pluck some of the newly
opened yellow rosebuds for her, making her a little speech about
herself and budding flowers. He would even, perhaps, show her his
bells, let her hear just the suspicion of a note from each. . . .
A sharp sound came to her abruptly out of the utter stillness but meant
nothing to her. She saw a flock of pigeons rise above the roofs of the
more distant houses, circle, swerve, and disappear beyond the
cottonwoods. She noted that Ignacio was no longer leaning lazily
against the wall; he had stiffened, his mouth was a little open,
breathless, his attitude that of one listening expectantly, his eyes
squinting as they had been just now when he fronted the sun. Then came
the second sound, a repetition of the first, sharp, in some way
sinister.
Pages:
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27