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Updated: May 6, 2025
The few tenants that were still on Los Muertos are leaving. That is one thing that brings me to the city. The family of one of the men who was killed Hooven was his name have come to the city to find work. I think they are liable to be in great distress, unless they have been wonderfully lucky, and I am trying to find them in order to look after them." "You need looking after yourself, Pres."
She tried to remember how tramps who had appeared at her back door on Los Muertos had addressed her; how and with what formula certain mendicants of Bonneville had appealed to her. Then, having settled upon a phrase, she approached a whiskered gentleman with a large stomach, walking briskly in the direction of the town. "Say, den, blease hellup a boor womun." The gentleman passed on.
But nobody was to go into Bonneville that morning with the mail, and if he wished to send his manuscript, he would have to take it in himself. He had resolved to do this, getting an early start, and going on horseback to Quien Sabe, by way of Bonneville. It was barely six o'clock when Presley sat down to his coffee and eggs in the dining-room of Los Muertos.
He must take the Lower Road across Los Muertos from Guadalajara, and he must reach it before Delaney's dogs and posse. Back he galloped, the buckskin measuring her length with every leap. Once more the station came in sight. Rising in his stirrups, he looked across the fields in the direction of the Lower Road. There was a cloud of dust there. From a wagon?
You are the only one of us all who is right. I'm with you from now on. In course of time, a farm wagon from Bonneville arrived at Hooven's. The bodies of Annixter and Harran were placed in it, and it drove down the Lower Road towards the Los Muertos ranch houses. The bodies of Delaney and Christian had already been carried to Guadalajara and thence taken by train to Bonneville.
Without realising it, he had been from the first drawn to Hilma, and all through these last terrible days, since the time he had seen her at Los Muertos, just after the battle at the ditch, she had obtruded continually upon his thoughts. The sight of her to-day, more beautiful than ever, quiet, strong, reserved, had only brought matters to a culmination.
It was the road that connected that town with Bonneville and that ran parallel with the railroad tracks. On the other side of the track he could see the infinite extension of the brown, bare land of Los Muertos, turning now to a soft, moist welter of fertility under the insistent caressing of the rain.
She had lived here now for nearly ten years. But never for one moment since the time her glance first lost itself in the unbroken immensity of the ranches had she known a moment's content. Continually there came into her pretty, wide-open eyes the eyes of a young doe a look of uneasiness, of distrust, and aversion. Los Muertos frightened her.
Beyond Annixter's, beyond Guadalajara, beyond the Lower Road, beyond Broderson Creek, on to the south and west, infinite, illimitable, stretching out there under the sheen of the sunset forever and forever, flat, vast, unbroken, a huge scroll, unrolling between the horizons, spread the great stretches of the ranch of Los Muertos, bare of crops, shaved close in the recent harvest.
It is easy enough to see the influence of Kipling in a ballad such as that which begins: Spanish waters, Spanish waters, you are singing in my ears, Like a slow sweet piece of music from the grey forgotten years; Telling tales, and beating tunes, and bringing weary thoughts to me Of the sandy beach at Muertos, where I would that I could be.
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