From this momentary hesitation a singular sound aroused her.It seemed at first like the swift hurrying by of some viewless courier of the air, the vague alarm of some invisible flying herald, or like the inarticulate cry that precedes a storm.It seemed to rise and fall around her as if with some changing urgency of purpose.
Raising her eyes she suddenly recognized the two far-stretching lines of telegraph wire above her head, and knew the aeolian cry of the morning wind along its vibrating chords.But it brought another and more practical fear to her active brain.Perhaps even now the telegraph might be anticipating her! Had Poindexter thought of that? She hesitated no longer, but laying the whip on the back of her jaded mustang again hurried forward.
As the level horizon grew more distinct, her attention was attracted by the white sail of a small boat lazily threading the sinuous channel of the slough.It might be Poindexter arriving by the more direct route from the steamboat that occasionally lay off the ancient embarcadero of the Los Cuervos Rancho.But even while watching it her quick ear caught the sound of galloping hoofs behind her.She turned quickly and saw she was followed by a horseman.But her momentary alarm was succeeded by a feeling of relief as she recognized the erect figure and square shoulders of Poindexter.Yet she could not help thinking that he looked more like a militant scout, and less like a cautious legal adviser, than ever.
With unaffected womanliness she rearranged her slightly disordered hair as he drew up beside her."I thought you were in yonder boat," she said.
"Not I," he laughed; "I distanced you by the high road two hours, and have been reconnoitring, until I saw you hesitate at the cross roads.""But who is in the boat?" asked Mrs.Tucker, partly to hide her embarrassment.
"Only some early Chinese market gardener, I dare say.But you are safe now.You are on your own land.You passed the boundary monument of the rancho five minutes ago.Look! All you see before you is yours from the embarcadero to yonder Coast Range."The tone of half-raillery did not, however, cheer Mrs.Tucker.She shuddered slightly and cast her eyes over the monotonous sea of tule and meadow.
"It doesn't look pretty, perhaps," continued Poindexter, "but it's the richest land in the State, and the embarcadero will some day be a town.I suppose you'll call it Blue Grassville.But you seem tired!" he said, suddenly dropping his voice to a tone of half-humorous sympathy.
Mrs.Tucker managed to get rid of an impending tear under the pretense of clearing her eyes."Are we nearly there?" she asked.
"Nearly.You know," he added with the same half-mischievous, half-sympathizing gayety, "it's not exactly a palace you're coming to.
Hardly.It's the old casa that has been deserted for years, but Ithought it better you should go into possession there than take up your abode at the shanty where your husband's farm-hands are.No one will know when you take possession of the casa, while the very hour of your arrival at the shanty would be known; and if they should make any trouble--""If they should make any trouble?" repeated Mrs.Tucker, lifting her frank, inquiring eyes to Poindexter.
His horse suddenly rearing from an apparently accidental prick of the spur, it was a minute or two before he was able to explain."Imean if this ever comes up as a matter of evidence, you know.But here we are!"What had seemed to be an overgrown mound rising like an island out of the dead level of the grassy sea now resolved itself into a collection of adobe walls, eaten and incrusted with shrubs and vines, that bore some resemblance to the usual uninhabited-looking exterior of a Spanish-American dwelling.Apertures that might have been lance-shaped windows or only cracks and fissures in the walls were choked up with weeds and grass, and gave no passing glimpse of the interior.Entering a ruinous corral they came to a second entrance, which proved to be the patio or courtyard.The deserted wooden corridor, with beams, rafters, and floors whitened by the eternal sun and wind, contained a few withered leaves, dryly rotting skins, and thongs of leather, as if undisturbed by human care.But among these scattered debris of former life and habitation there was no noisome or unclean suggestion of decay.Afaint, spiced odor of desiccation filled the bare walls.There was no slime on stone or sun-dried brick.In place of fungus or discolored moisture the dust of efflorescence whitened in the obscured corners.The elements had picked clean the bones of the crumbling tenement ere they should finally absorb it.
A withered old peon woman, who in dress, complexion, and fibrous hair might have been an animated fragment of the debris, rustled out of a low vaulted passage and welcomed them with a feeble crepitation.Following her into the dim interior Mrs.Tucker was surprised to find some slight attempt at comfort and even adornment in the two or three habitable apartments.They were scrupulously clean and dry, two qualities which in her feminine eyes atoned for poverty of material.
