Accustomed as she was to the diffidence of ranch-hands, she refrained
from urging him, and proceeded with her repast. When she had finished
she lay back and watched him as he ate sparingly.
"My horse fell crossing the Arroyo Grande," she announced, abruptly.
"He broke a leg, and I had to shoot him."
"Is there any water in the Grande?" asked the man.
"No. They told me there was plenty. I knew of this charco, so I made
for it."
"Who told you there was water in the arroyo?"
"Those Mexicans at the little-goat ranch."
"Balli. So you walked in from Arroyo Grande. Lord! It's a good ten
miles straightaway, and I reckon you came crooked. Eh?"
"Yes. And it was very hot. I was never here but once, and--the country
looks different when you're afoot."
"It certainly does," the man nodded. Then he continued, musingly: "No
water there, eh? I figured there might be a little." The fact appeared
to please him, for he nodded again as he went on with his meal. "Not
much rain down here, I reckon."
"Very little. Where are you from?"
"Me? Hebbronville. My name is Law."
Evidently, thought the woman, this fellow belonged to the East outfit,
or some of the other big cattle-ranches in the Hebbronville district.
Probably he was a range boss or a foreman. After a time she said, "I
suppose the nearest ranch is that Balli place?"
"Yes'm."
"I'd like to borrow your horse."