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Vanamee lifted his head, looking about him with unseeing eyes, trembling with the exertion of his vain effort. But he could not as yet allow himself to despair. Never before had that curious power of attraction failed him. He felt himself to be so strong in this respect that he was persuaded if he exerted himself to the limit of his capacity, something he could not say what must come of it.
On the Quien Sabe ranch, in one of its western divisions, near the line fence that divided it from the Osterman holding, Vanamee was harnessing the horses to the plough to which he had been assigned two days before, a stable-boy from the division barn helping him.
One of these doors, on the pulpit side of the church, stood ajar, and stepping to it and pushing it wide open, Vanamee looked diagonally across a little patch of vegetables beets, radishes, and lettuce to the rear of the building that had once contained the cloisters, and through an open window saw Father Sarria diligently polishing the silver crucifix that usually stood on the high altar.
He was, strangely enough, a college graduate and a man of wide reading and great intelligence, but he had chosen to lead his own life, which was that of a recluse. Of a temperament similar in many ways to Presley's, there were capabilities in Vanamee that were not ordinarily to be found in the rank and file of men.
Some day I shall be buried here. I like to remember that; and you, too, Vanamee." "Quien sabe?" "Yes, you, too. Where else? No, it is better here, yonder, by the side of the little girl." "I am not able to look forward yet, sir. The things that are to be are somehow nothing to me at all. For me they amount to nothing." "They amount to everything, my boy."
The man was Vanamee beyond all doubt, and a little later Presley, descending the maze of cow-paths and cattle-trails that led down towards the Broderson Creek, overtook his friend. Instantly Presley was aware of an immense change.
At the time of his meeting with Angele, Vanamee was living on the Los Muertos ranch. It was there he had chosen to spend one of his college vacations.
Nearly all the other teams were harnessed, the drivers on their seats, waiting for the foreman's signal. "All ready here?" inquired the foreman, driving up to Vanamee's team in his buggy. "All ready, sir," answered Vanamee, buckling the last strap.
The sweat stiffening the hair upon her back and loins, as it dried, gave off a penetrating, ammoniacal odour that mingled with the stale perfume of sachet and wilted flowers. Presley and Vanamee stood looking at the deserted barn. There was a long silence. Then Presley said: "Well... what do you think of it all?"
Evidently something of moment was in the wind. "What's all up?" demanded Annixter, as he and Harran, followed by Presley, drew near. "There's hell to pay," exclaimed Osterman under his breath. "Read that. Vanamee just brought it." He handed Annixter a sheet of note paper, and turned again to the cinching of his saddle. "We've got to be quick," he cried. "They've stolen a march on us."
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