her neighbor's house and came to her door, where she was standing now, and gazed away over the sand where he had gone, down toward Mexico.
The years went by, and she was still alone in the house where two should have been. And now far off she saw the dust blowing in a long, rolling, pinkish line. But the dust blew so often, and nothing came of it—not even the Indians.
The boy she knew was dead, but they—his murderers—remained, somewhere.
If she could have one now in her power!
The woman in black pondered, as she had so many times, how she should torture him. No pain could be too horrible. She looked at the fire in the stove, and piled on the logs—the logs that were brought with such trouble from the mountains where the trees grew. She could not make it hot enough. She dropped on her knees and watched the iron grow red. And the letters of the maker's name stamped on it grew distinct, and the word "Congress," half defaced, and the figures "64." Ah, those letters! she could have kissed the spot, for her child had touched it Charmed by the glow, when left alone, he laid his baby hand flat on it, and burned deep into the palm were those letters, "S S, 64."
She would know him among a million by that mark.
But he was dead. The Indians remained.
The woman in black stood up. Why should she not go to them? There were pools in the plain where she could drink. That would be enough.
The men were away; the women were at work. Who could stop her?
She put on her bonnet and started off down the hill through the green bushes. The air was still crisp, though the sun was hot.
The desert must have an end. She would keep on to Mexico. She walked quickly, and her dress grew gray with dust, and the air scorching, as she reached the plain. But she kept on, and only looked back once at the house on the hill, and at the window where the pale woman sat.
The dust choked her, and she stumbled, and the sole of one shoe came half off, and slapped, and banged, and delayed her as she walked. She
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