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He had made a salad from his own lettuce. The two would dine with him, eh? For this, my son, that was lost is found again. But Presley excused himself. Instinctively, he felt that Sarria and Vanamee wanted to talk of things concerning which he was an outsider. It was not at all unlikely that Vanamee would spend half the night before the high altar in the church.
On the porch outside Caraher met him. "Is he is he " began the saloon-keeper. "Yes, he's dead," cried Presley. "They're all dead, murdered, shot down, dead, dead, all of them. Whose turn is next?" "That's the way they killed my wife, Presley." "Caraher," cried Presley, "give me your hand. I've been wrong all the time. The League is wrong. All the world is wrong.
In all that countryside he had but three friends, Presley, Magnus Derrick, and the priest at the Mission of San Juan de Guadalajara, Father Sarria. He remained always a mystery, living a life half-real, half-legendary. In all those years he did not seem to have grown older by a single day. At this time, Presley knew him to be thirty-six years of age.
"Well, maybe I will, thank you," said Presley, moving off. "By the way," he added, "I see your barn is about done." "You bet," answered Annixter. "In about a fortnight now she'll be all ready." "It's a big barn," murmured Presley, glancing around the angle of the house toward where the great structure stood. "Guess we'll have to have a dance there before we move the stock in," observed Annixter.
He lay upon the floor of Hooven's house, bare to the waist, bandages of adhesive tape reeved about his abdomen and shoulder. His eyes were half-closed. Presley, who looked after him, pending the arrival of a hack from Bonneville that was to take him home, knew that he was in agony.
White muslin half-curtains hung in the windows, upon the sills of which certain plants bearing pink waxen flowers of which Presley did not know the name, grew in oblong green boxes. The walls were unadorned, save by two pictures, one a reproduction of the "Reading from Homer," the other a charcoal drawing of the Mission of San Juan de Guadalajara, which Presley had made himself.
He drew down the overhanging spout of the tank to the vent in the circumference of the cart and pulled the chain that let out the water. Then he climbed down from the seat, jumping from the tire of the wheel, and taking Presley by the arm led him a few steps down the road. "Say," he began. "Say, I want to hef some converzations mit you. Yoost der men I want to see.
In the act of lighting another, he glanced across the room and was surprised to see two very prettily dressed young women in the company of an older gentleman, in a long frock coat, standing before Hartrath's painting, examining it, their heads upon one side. Presley uttered a murmur of surprise.
"There's nothing vicious about Minna, and I guess she'll marry that foreman on the ditch gang, right enough." "Well, as a matter of course, she's a good girl," Presley hastened to reply, "only she's too pretty for a poor girl, and too sure of her prettiness besides. That's the kind," he continued, "who would find it pretty easy to go wrong if they lived in a city."
Cedarquist; his brother Stephen, whose hair was straight as an Indian's, but of a pallid straw color, with Beatrice's sister; Gerard himself, taciturn, bearded, rotund, loud of breath, escorted Mrs. Cedarquist. Besides these, there were one or two other couples, whose names Presley did not remember. The dining-room was superb in its appointments.
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