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Some of his enemies might find out about it and make a scandal. Archulera might come around in an ugly mood and make trouble. The girl might run away and come to town again. And yet, now that he had a plan, he was all confidence.
And he knew that in the next room Catalina was waiting for him—Catalina with the strong, shapely brown body which her formless calico smock concealed by day, with the eager, blind desire bred of her long loneliness. During his first few visits to Archulera, he had scarcely noticed the girl. That was doubtless one reason why the old man had welcomed him.
He got out of these ventures into another environment about what some men get out of sprees—a complete change of the state of mind. Archulera and his daughter were now completely forgotten, and all of his usual worries and plans were creeping back into his consciousness. But this day he had a feeling of pleasant anticipation. At first he could not account for it.
Archulera was watching him with bright black eyes—cunning, feral—the eyes of a primitive fighting man, eyes that had never flinched at dealing death. Ramon knew suddenly that his idea was right. Blood pounded in his temples and a red mist of excitement swam before his eyes. “Yes!” he exclaimed, leaping to his feet. “Yes!
His nerves were overstrung. This ceaseless iteration of hell and murder, murder and hell would drive him crazy, he thought. He wished mightily that the priest would have done and name his price and go. What was the sense and purpose of this endless babble about hell and murder?… A sickening thought struck him like a blow, leaving him weak. What if old Archulera had confessed to the priest?
Here is something I promised you,” he added, laying a small heavy canvas bag upon the table, just as he had always laid a package of tobacco or some other small gift. Old Archulera nodded without looking at the bag. “Thank you,” he said. Afterward they talked about the bean crop and the weather, and had an excellent dinner of goat meat cooked with chile.
With no more disguise than a red blanket and a grunt Archulera could have passed for an Indian anywhere, but he made it clear to all that he regarded himself as a Spanish gentleman. He was descended, like Ramon, from one of the old families, which had received occasional infusions of native blood.
He had felt her eyes upon him several times, had not looked up quickly enough to meet them, but had noticed the pretty soft curve of her cheek. Then one night when he was stretched out on his sheep skins after Archulera had gone to bed, the girl came into the room and began pottering about the stove. He had watched her, wondering what she was doing.
He whistled loudly through his fingers and waved his hat. “Como lo va primo!” he shouted, and he saw Archulera stop and look, and heard faintly his answering, “Como la va!” Soon Archulera had his goats penned, and Ramon joined him while he milked half a dozen ewes.
Ramon made inquiry in town and learned that Archulera had been seen there in his absence, very much dressed-up and very drunk, followed by a crowd of young Mexicans who were evidently parasites on his newly-acquired wealth. Then he had disappeared, and some thought he had gone to Denver. It was evident that his five thousand dollars had proved altogether too much for him.
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