The heat of midday was tempered by a light breeze up the San Christobal
Valley, and there was not a single cloud in the June skies to throw a
softening shadow on the yellow plain. A little group of Mexicans, riding
northward with sullen faces, urged on their jaded ponies viciously as
they thought of the gold that was to have been paid them for this
morning's work, and of the gold that to-morrow night must go to pay the
priest who should shrive them; and they had nothing gained wherewith to
pay. Their leader, whom they had served, had been trapped in his own
game, and they felt themselves abused and deceived.
Down by the brown sands of the river Father Josef waited at the door of
the half-ruined little stone chapel for the strange group coming slowly
toward him: Ferdinand Ramero, riding like a captured but unconquered
king, his head erect, his flashing eyes seeing nobody; Jondo who could
make the shabbiest piece of horseflesh take on grace when he mounted it,
his tanned cheek flushed, and the spirit of supreme sacrifice looking
out through his dark-blue eyes; Eloise, drooping like a white flower,
but brave of spirit now, sure that her grief and anxiety would be lifted
somehow.
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