and white to the lips, Angie Lowe stood in the door of her cabin with a
double barreled shotgun in her hands. Beside the door was a Winchester
'73, and on the table inside the house were two Walker Colts.|
the cabin were twelve Apaches on ragged calico ponies, and one of the
Indians had lifted his hand, palm outward. The Apache sitting the
white-splashed bay pony was Cochise.
Beside Angie were her seven-year-old son Jimmy and her five-year old daughter Jane.
sat his pony in silence; his black, unreadable eyes studied thewoman,
the children, the cabin, and the small garden. He looked at the two
ponies in the corral and the three cows. His eyes strayed to the small
stack of hay cut from the meadow, and to the few steers farther up the
times the warriors of Cochise had attacked this solitary cabin and
three times they had been turned back. In all, they had lost seven men,
and three had been wounded. Four ponies had been killed. His braves
reported that there was no man in the house, only a woman and two
children, so Cochise had come to see for himself this woman who was so
certain a shot with a rifle and who killed his fighting men.
were some of the same fighting men who had outfought, outguessed and
outrun the finest American army on record, an army outnumbering the
Apaches by a hundred to one. Yet a lone woman with two small children
had fought them off, and the woman was scarcely more than a girl. And
she was prepared to fight now. There was a glint of admiration in the
old eyes that appraised her. The Apache was a fighting man, and he
respected fighting blood.
"Where is your man?"
has gone to EI Paso." Angie's voice was steady, but she was frightened
as she had never been before. She recognized Cochise from descriptions,
and she knew that if he decided to kill or capture her it would be
done. Until now, the sporadic attacks she had fought off had been those
of casual bands of warriors who raided her in passing.
"He has been gone a long time. How long?"
Angie hesitated, but it was not in her to lie. "He has been gone four months."
considered that. No one but a fool would leave such a woman, or such
fine children. Only one thing could have prevented his return. "Your
man is dead," he said.
waited, her heart pounding with heavy, measured beats. She had guessed
long ago that Ed had been killed but the way Cochise spoke did not
imply that Apaches had killed him, only that he must be dead or he
would have returned.
"You fight well," Cochise said. "You have killed my young men."
"Your young men attacked me." She hesitated, then added, "They stole my horses."
"Your man is gone. Why do you not leave?"
Angie looked at him with surprise. "Leave? Why, this is my home. This land is mine. This spring is mine. I shall not leave."
"This was an Apache spring," Cochise reminded her reasonably.
"The Apache lives in the mountains," Angie replied. "He does not need this spring. I have two children, and I do need it."
"But when the Apache comes this way, where shall he drink? His throat is dry and you keep him from water."
very fact that Cochise was willing to talk raised her hopes. There had
been a time when the Apache made no war on the white man. "Cochise
speaks with a forked tongue," she said. "There is water yonder."
She gestured toward the hills, where Ed had told her there were springs.
"But if the people of Cochise come in peace they may drink at this spring."
Apache leader smiled faintly. Such a woman would rear a nation of
warriors. He nodded at Jimmy. "The small one-does he also shoot?"
"He does," Angie said proudly, "and well, too!" She pointed to an upthrust leaf of prickly pear. "Show them, Jimmy."
prickly pear was an easy two hundred yards away, and the Winchester was
long and heavy, but he lifted it eagerly and steadied it against the
doorjamb as his father had taught him, held his sight an instant, then
fired. The bud on top of the prickly pear disintegrated.
were grunts of appreciation from the dark-faced warriors. Cochise
chuckled. "The little warrior shoots well. It is well you have no man.
You might raise an army of little warriors to fight my people."
have no wish to fight your people," Angie said quietly. "Your people
have your ways, and I have mine. I live in peace when I am left in
peace. I did not think," she added with dignity, "that the great
Cochise made war on women!"
Apache looked at her, then turned his pony away. "My people will
trouble you no longer," he said. "You are the mother of a strong son."
"What about my two ponies?" she called after him. "Your young men took them from me."
did not turn or look back, and the little cavalcade of riders followed
him away. Angie stepped back into the cabin and closed the door. Then
she sat down abruptly, her face white, the muscles in her legs
morning came, she went cautiously to the spring for water. Her ponies
were back in the corral. They had been returned during the night.
the days drew on. Angie broke a small piece of the meadow and planted
it. Alone, she cut hay in the meadow and built another stack. She saw
Indians several times, but they did not bother her. One morning, when
she opened her door, a quarter of antelope lay on the step, but no
Indian was in sight. Several times, during the weeks that followed, she
saw moccasin tracks near the spring.
going out at daybreak, she saw an Indian girl dipping water from the
spring. Angie called to her, and the girl turned quickly, facing her.
Angie walked toward her, offering a bright red silk ribbon. Pleased,
the Apache girl left.
And the following morning there was another quarter of antelope on her step-but she saw no Indian.
Lowe had built the cabin in West Dog Canyon in the spring of 1871, but
it was Angie who chose the spot, not Ed. In Santa Fe they would have
told you that Ed Lowe was good-looking, shiftless, and agreeable. He
was, also, unfortunately handy with a pistol.
father had come from County Mayo to New York and from New York to the
Mississippi, where he became a tough, brawling river boatman. In New
Orleans, he met a beautiful Cajun girl and married her. Together, they
started west for Santa Fe, and Angie was born en route. Both parents
died of cholera when Angie was fourteen. She lived with an Irish family
for the following three years, then married Ed Lowe when she was
Fe was not good for Ed, and Angie kept after him until they started
south. It was Apache country, but they kept on until they reached the
old Spanish ruin in West Dog. Here there were grass, water, and shelter
from the wind.
was fuel, and there were piñons and game. And Angie, with an Irish eye
for the land, saw that it would grow crops. The house itself was built
on the ruins of the old Spanish building, using the thick walls and the
floor. The location had been admirably chosen for defense. The house
was built in a corner of the cliff, under the sheltering overhang, so
that approach was possible from only two directions, both covered by an
easy field of fire from the door and windows.
seven months, Ed worked hard and steadily. He put in the first crop, he
built the house, and proved himself a handy man with tools. He repaired
the old plow they had bought, cleaned out the spring, and paved and
walled it with slabs of stone. If he was lonely for the carefree
companions of Santa Fe, he gave no indication of it. Provisions were
low, and when he finally started off to the south, Angie watched him go
with an ache in her heart.
DID NOT know whether she loved Ed. The first flush of enthusiasm had
passed, and Ed Lowe had proved something less than she had believed.
But he had tried, she admitted. And it had not been easy for him. He
was an amiable soul, given to whittling and idle talk, all of which he
missed in the loneliness of the Apache country. And when he rode away,
she had no idea whether she would ever see him again. She never did.
Fe was far and away to the north, but the growing village of EI Paso
was less than a hundred miles to the west, and it was there Ed Lowe
rode for supplies and seed.
had several drinks-his first in months-in one of the saloons. As the
liquor warmed his stomach, Ed Lowe looked around agreeably. For a
moment, his eyes clouded with worry as he thought of his wife and
children back in Apache country, but it was not in Ed Lowe to worry for
long. He had another drink and leaned on the bar, talking to the
bartender. All Ed had ever asked of life was enough to eat, a horse to
ride, an occasional drink, and companions to talk with. Not that he had
anything important to say. He just liked to talk.
a chair grated on the floor, and Ed turned. A lean, powerful man with a
shock of uncut black hair and a torn, weather-faded shirt stood at bay.
Facing him across the table were three hard-faced young men, obviously
Lane did not notice Ed Lowe watching from the bar. He had eyes only for
the men facing him. "You done that deliberate!" The statement was a
broad-chested man on the left grinned through broken teeth. "That's
right, Ches. I done it deliberate. You killed Dan Tolliver on the
"He made the quarrel." Comprehension came to Ches. He was boxed, and by three of the fighting, blood-hungry Tollivers.
"Don't make no difference," the broad-chested Tolliver said. " 'Who sheds a Tolliver's blood, by a Tolliver's hand must die!' "
Lowe moved suddenly from the bar. "Three to one is long odds:' he said,
his voice low and friendly. "If the gent in the corner is willin', I'll
Tollivers turned toward him. Ed Lowe was smiling easily, his hand
hovering near his gun. "You stay out of this!" one of the brothers said
"I'm in," Ed replied. "Why don't you boys light a shuck?"
"N0, by-!" The man's hand dropped for his gun, and the room thundered with sound.
was smiling easily, unworried as always. His gun flashed up. He felt it
leap in his hand, saw the nearest Tolliver smashed back, and he shot
him again as he dropped. He had only time to see Ches Lane with two
guns out and another Tolliver down when something struck him through
the stomach and he stepped back against the bar, suddenly sick.
sound stopped, and the room was quiet, and there was the acrid smell of
powder smoke. Three Tollivers were down and dead, and Ed Lowe was
dying. Ches Lane crossed to him.
"We got'em:' Ed said, "we sure did. But they got me."
his face changed. "Oh, Lord in heaven, what'll Angie do?" And then he
crumpled over on the floor and lay still, the blood staining his shirt
and mingling with the sawdust.
Stiff-faced, Ches looked up. "Who was Angie?" he asked.
wife," the bartender told him. "She's up northeast somewhere, in Apache
country. He was tellin' me about her. Two kids, too."
Ches Lane stared down at the crumpled, used-up body of Ed Lowe. The man had saved his life.
he could have beaten, two he might have beaten; three would have killed
him. Ed Lowe, stepping in when he did, had saved the life of Ches Lane.
"He didn't say where?"
Ches Lane shoved his hat back on his head. "What's northeast of here?"
The bartender rested his hands on the bar. "Cochise," he said....
more than three months, whenever he could rustle the girl, Ches Lane
quartered the country over and back. The trouble was, he had no lead to
the location of Ed Lowe's homestead. An examination of Ed's horse
revealed nothing. Lowe had bought seed and ammunition, and the seed
indicated a good water supply, and the ammunition implied trouble. But
in that country there was always trouble.
man had died to save his life, and Ches Lane had a deep sense of
obligation. Somewhere that wife waited, if she was still alive, and it
was up to him to find her and look out for her. He rode northeast,
cutting for sign, but found none. Sandstorms had wiped out any hope of
back-trailing Lowe. Actually, West Dog Canyon was more east than north,
but this he had no way of knowing.
he went, skirting the rugged San Andreas Mountains. Heat baked him hot,
dry winds parched his skin. His hair grew dry and stiff and
alkali-whitened. He rode north, and soon the Apaches knew of him. He
fought them at a lonely water hole, and he fought them on the run. They
killed his horse, and he switched his saddle to the spare and rode on.
They cornered him in the rocks, and he killed two of them and escaped
TRAILED HIM through the White Sands, and he left two more for dead. He
fought fiercely and bitterly, and would not be turned from his quest.
He turned east through the lava beds and still more east to the Pecos.
He saw only two white men, and neither knew of a white woman.
bearded man laughed harshly, "A woman alone? She wouldn't last a month!
By now the Apaches got her, or she's dead. Don't be a fool! Leave this
country before you die here:'
wind-whipped, and savage, Ches Lane pushed on. The Mescaleros cornered
him in Rawhide Draw and he fought them to a standstill. Grimly, the
Apaches clung to his trail.
sheer determination of the man fascinated them. Bred and born in a
rugged and lonely land, the Apaches knew the difficulties of survival;
they knew how a man could live, how he must live. Even as they tried to
kill this man, they loved him, for he was one of their own.
jeans grew ragged. Two bullet holes were added to the old black hat.
The slicker was torn; the saddle, so carefully kept until now, was
scratched by gravel and brush. At night he cleaned his guns and by day
he scouted the trails. Three times he found lonely ranch houses burned
to the ground, the buzzard- and coyote-stripped bones of their owners
he found a covered wagon, its canvas flopping in the wind, a man lying
sprawled on the seat with a pistol near his hand. He was dead and his
wife was dead, and their canteens rattled like empty skulls.
every day, Ches Lane pushed on. He camped one night in a canyon near
some white oaks. He heard a hoof click on stone and he backed away from
his tiny fire, gun in hand.
riders were white men, and there were two of them. Joe Tompkins and
Wiley Lynn were headed west, and Ches Lane could have guessed why. They
were men he had known before, and he told them what he was doing.
chuckled. He was a thin-faced man with lank yellow hair and dirty
fingers. "Seems a mighty strange way to get a woman. There's some as
"This ain't for fun," Ches replied shortly. "I got to find her."
stared at him. "Ches, you're crazy! That gent declared himself in of
his own wish and desire. Far's that goes, the gal's dead. No woman
could last this long in Apache country."
At daylight, the two men headed west, and Ches Lane turned south.
and deer are curious creatures, often led to their death by curiosity.
The longhorn, soon going wild on the plains, acquires the same
characteristic. He is essentially curious. Any new thing or strange
action will bring his head up and his ears alert. Often a longhorn,
like a deer, can be lured within a stone's throw by some queer antic,
by a handkerchief waving, by a man under a hide, by a man on foot.
character of the wild things holds true of the Indian. The lonely rider
who fought so desperately and knew the desert so well soon became a
subject of gossip among the Apaches. Over the fires of many a rancheria
they discussed this strange rider who seemed to be going nowhere, but
always riding, like a lean wolf dog on a trail. He rode across the
mesas and down the canyons; he studied sign at every water hole; he
looked long from every ridge. It was obvious to the Indians that he
searched for something-but what?
HAD COME again to the cabin in West Dog Canyon. "Little warrior too
small," he said, "too small for hunt. You join my people. Take Apache
"No." Angie shook her head. "Apache ways are good for the Apache, and the white man's ways are good for white men-and women."
rode away and said no more, but that night, as she had on many other
nights after the children were asleep, Angie cried. She wept silently,
her head pillowed on her arms. She was as pretty as ever, but her face
was thin, showing the worry and struggle of the months gone by, the
weeks and months without hope.
crops were small but good. Little Jimmy worked beside her. At night,
Angie sat alone on the steps and watched the shadows gather down the
long canyon, listening to the coyotes yapping from the rim of the
Guadalupes, hearing the horses blowing in the corral. She watched,
still hopeful, but now she knew that Cochise was right: Ed would not
even if she had been ready to give up this, the first home she had
known, there could be no escape. Here she was protected by Cochise.
Other Apaches from other tribes would not so willingly grant her peace.
daylight she was up. The morning air was bright and balmy, but soon it
would be hot again. Jimmy went to the spring for water, and when
breakfast was over, the children played while Angie sat in the shade of
a huge old cottonwood and sewed. It was a Sunday, warm and lovely. From
time to time, she lifted her eyes to look down the canyon, halfsmiling
at her own foolishness.
hard-packed earth of the yard was swept clean of dust; the pans hanging
on the kitchen wall were neat and shining. The children's hair had been
clipped, and there was a small bouquet on the kitchen table.
a while, Angie put aside her sewing and changed her dress. She did her
hair carefully, and then, looking in her mirror, she reflected with
sudden pain that she was pretty, and that she was only a girl.
she turned from the mirror and, taking up her Bible, went back to the
seat under the cottonwood. The children left their playing and came to
her, for this was a Sunday ritual, their only one. Opening the Bible,
she read slowly,
. . though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will
fear no evil; for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff, they comfort
me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies:
"Mommy." Jimmy tugged at her sleeve. "Look!"
LANE HAD REACHED a narrow canyon by midafternoon and decided to make
camp. There was small possibility he would find another such spot, and
he was dead tired, his muscles sodden with fatigue. The canyon was one
of those unexpected gashes in the cap rock that gave no indication of
its presence until you came right on it. After some searching, Ches
found a route to the bottom and made camp under a wind-hollowed
overhang. There was water, and there was a small patch of grass.
his horse had a drink and a roll on the ground, it began cropping
eagerly at the rich, green grass, and Ches built a smokeless fire of
ancient driftwood in the canyon bottom. It was his first hot meal in
days, and when he had finished he put out his fire, rolled a smoke, and
leaned back contentedly.
darkness settled, he climbed to the rim and looked over the country.
The sun had gone down, and the shadows were growing long. After a half
hour of study, he decided there was no living thing within miles,
except for the usual desert life. Returning to the bottom, he moved his
horse to fresh grass, then rolled in his blanket. For the first time in
a month, he slept without fear.
woke up suddenly in the broad daylight. The horse was listening to
something, his head up. Swiftly, Ches went to the horse and led it back
under the overhang. Then he drew on his boots, rolled his blankets, and
saddled the horse. Still he heard no sound.
the rim again, he studied the desert and found nothing. Returning to
his horse, he mounted up and rode down the canyon toward the flatland
beyond. Coming out of the canyon mouth, he rode right into the middle
of a war party of more than twenty Apaches–invisible until suddenly
they stood up behind rocks, their rifles leveled. And he didn't have a
Swiftly, they bound his wrists to the saddle horn and tied his feet.
Only then did he see the man who led the party. It was Cochise.
was a lean, wiry Indian of past fifty, his black hair streaked
with gray, his features strong and clean-cut. He stared at Lane, and
there was nothing in his face to reveal what he might be thinking.
of the young warriors pushed forward, talking excitedly and waving
their arms. Ches Lane understood none of it, but he sat straight in the
saddle, his head up, waiting. Then Cochise spoke and the party turned,
and, leading his horse, they rode away.
miles grew long and the sun was hot. He was offered no water and he
asked for none. The Indians ignored him. Once a young brave rode near
and struck him viciously. Lane made no sound, gave no indication of
pain. When they finally stopped, it was beside a huge anthill swarming
with big red desert ants.
they untied him and jerked him from his horse. He dug in his heels and
shouted at them in Spanish: "The Apaches are women! They tie me to the
ants because they are afraid to fight me!"
Indian struck him, and Ches glared at the man. If he must die, he would
show them how it should be done. Yet he knew the unpredictable nature
of the Indian, of his great respect for courage.
"Give me a knife, and I'll kill any of your warriors!"
stared at him, and one powerfully built Apache angrily ordered them to
get on with it. Cochise spoke, and the big warrior replied angrily.
Lane nodded at the anthill. "Is this the death for a fighting man? I
have fought your strong men and beaten them. I have left no trail for
them to follow, and for months I have lived among you, and now only by
accident have you captured me. Give me a knife," he added grimly, "and
I will fight him!" He indicated the big, black-faced Apache.
The warrior's cruel mouth hardened, and he struck Ches across the face.
white man tasted blood and fury. "Woman!" Ches said. "Coyote! You are
afraid!" Ches turned on Cochise, as the Indians stood irresolute. "Free
my hands and let me fight!" he demanded. "If I win, let me go free."
said something to the big Indian. Instantly, there was stillness. Then
an Apache sprang forward and, with a slash of his knife, freed Lane's
hands. Shaking loose the thongs, Ches Lane chafed his wrists to bring
back the circulation. An Indian threw a knife at his feet. It was his
own bowie knife.
took off his riding boots. In sock feet, his knife gripped low in his
hand, its cutting edge up, he looked at the big warrior.
"I promise you nothing," Cochise said in Spanish, "but an honorable death.
big warrior came at him on cat feet. Warily, Ches circled. He had not
only to defeat this Apache but to escape. He permitted himself a side
glance toward his horse. It stood alone. No Indian held it.
Apache closed swiftly, thrusting wickedly with the knife. Ches, who had
learned knife-fighting in the bayou country of Louisiana, turned his
hip sharply, and the blade slid past him. He struck swiftly, but the
Apache's forward movement deflected the blade, and it failed to
penetrate. However, as it swept up between the Indian's body and arm,
it cut a deep gash in the warrior's left armpit.
Indian sprang again, like a clawing cat, streaming blood. Ches moved
aside, but a backhand sweep nicked him, and he felt the sharp bite of
the blade. Turning, he paused on the balls of his feet.
had had no water in hours. His lips were cracked. Yet he sweated now,
and the salt of it stung his eyes. He stared into the malevolent black
eyes of the Apache, then moved to meet him. The Indian lunged, and Ches
sidestepped like a boxer and spun on the ball of his foot.
sudden sidestep threw the Indian past him, but Ches failed to drive the
knife into the Apache's kidney when his foot rolled on a stone. The
point left a thin red line across the Indian's back. The Indian was
quick. Before Ches could recover his balance, he grasped the white
man's knife wrist. Desperately, Ches grabbed for the Indian's knife
hand and got the wrist, and they stood there straining, chest to chest.
his chance, Ches suddenly let his knees buckle, then brought up his
knee and fell back, throwing the Apache over his head to the sand.
Instantly, he whirled and was on his feet, standing over the Apache.
The warrior had lost his knife, and he lay there, staring up, his eyes
black with hatred.
Ches stepped back, picked up the Indian's knife, and tossed it to him
contemptuously. There was a grunt from the watching Indians, and then
his antagonist rushed. But loss of blood had weakened the warrior, and
Ches stepped in swiftly, struck the blade aside, then thrust the point
of his blade hard against the Indian's belly.
eyes glared into his without yielding. A thrust, and the man would be
disemboweled, but Ches stepped back. "He is a strong man," Ches said in
Spanish. "It is enough that I have won."
Deliberately, he walked to his horse and swung into the saddle. He looked around, and every rifle covered him.
he had gained nothing. He had hoped that mercy might lead to mercy,
that the Apache's respect for a fighting man would win his freedom. He
had failed. Again they bound him to his horse, but they did not take
his knife from him.
they camped at last, he was given food and drink. He was bound again,
and a blanket was thrown over him. At daylight they were again in the
saddle. In Spanish he asked where they were taking him, but
they gave no indication of hearing. When they stopped again, it was beside
a pole corral, near a stone cabin.
WHEN JIMMY SPOKE, Angie got quickly to her feet. She recognized
Cochise with a start of relief, but she saw instantly that this was a war party. And then she saw the prisoner.
eyes met and she felt a distinct shock. He was a white man, a big,
unshaven man who badly needed both a bath and a haircut, his clothes
ragged and bloody. Cochise gestured at the prisoner.
"No take Apache man, you take white man. This man good for hunt, good for fight. He strong warrior. You take'em."
Flushed and startled, Angie stared at the prisoner and caught a faint glint of humor in his dark eyes.
"Is this here the fate worse than death I hear tell of?" he inquired gently.
"Who are you?" she asked, and was immediately conscious that it was an extremely silly question.
Apaches had drawn back and were watching curiously. She could do
nothing for the present but accept the situation. Obviously they
intended to do her a kindness, and it would not do to offend them. If
they had not brought this man to her, he might have been killed.
"Name's Ches Lane, ma'am," he said. "Will you untie me? I'd feel a lot safer."
course." Still flustered, she went to him and untied his hands. One
Indian said something, and the others chuckled; then, with a whoop,
they swung their horses and galloped off down the canyon.
departure left her suddenly helpless, the shadowy globe of her
loneliness shattered by this utterly strange man standing before her,
this big, bearded man brought to her out of the desert.
smoothed her apron, suddenly pale as she realized what his delivery to
her implied. What must he think of her? She turned away quickly.
"There's hot water," she said hastily, to prevent his speaking. "Dinner
is almost ready."
WALKED QUICKLY into the house and stopped before the stove, her mind a
blank. She looked around her as if she had suddenly waked up in a
strange place. She heard water being poured into the basin by the door,
and heard him take Ed's razor. She had never moved the box. To have
moved it would-
"Sight of work done here, ma'am."
She hesitated, then turned with determination and stepped into the doorway. "Yes, Ed-"
"You're Angie Lowe."
she turned toward him, and recognized his own startled awareness of
her. As he shaved, he told her about Ed, and what had happened that day
in the saloon.
"He-Ed was like that. He never considered consequences until it was too late."
"Lucky for me he didn't."
was younger-looking with his beard gone. There was a certain quiet
dignity in his face. She went back inside and began putting plates on
the table. She was conscious that he had moved to the door and was
don't have to stay," she said. "You owe me nothing. Whatever Ed did, he
did because he was that kind of person. You aren't responsible."
He did not answer, and when she turned again to the stove, she glanced swiftly at him. He was looking across the valley.
was a studied deference about him when he moved to a place at the
table. The children stared, wide-eyed and silent; it had been so long
since a man sat at this table.
could not remember when she had felt like this. She was awkwardly
conscious of her hands, which never seemed to be in the right place or
doing the right things. She scarcely tasted her food, nor did the
Lane had no such inhibitions. For the first time, he realized how
hungry he was. After the half-cooked meat of lonely, trailside fires,
this was tender and flavored. Hot biscuits, desert honey ... Suddenly
he looked up, embarrassed at his appetite.
"You were really hungry," she said.
"Man can't fix much, out on the trail."
after he'd got his bedroll from his saddle and unrolled it on the hay
in the barn, he walked back to the house and sat on the lowest step.
The sun was gone, and they watched the cliffs stretch their red shadows
across the valley. A quail called plaintively, a mellow sound of
"You needn't worry about Cochise," she said. "He'll soon be crossing into Mexico."
"I wasn't thinking about Cochise."
That left her with nothing to say, and she listened again to the quail and watched a lone bright star.
"A man could get to like it here," he said quietly.