'Fry some bacon. I have to leave, and I hate to travel on an empty stomach,' Goodnight said. 'I hope that won't interrupt your schedule too much.' 'I usually fry the bacon last, but I guess you're the boss,' Muley said.
'I was the last time I wrote you a paycheck,' Goodnight said.
Goodnight poured his own coffee, since Muley hadn't offered to. The bacon was soon crackling and spitting grease. Willie Bascom came over and accepted a cup of coffee. He had his boots on, but did not look happy to be up.
'I didn't think we was branding till tomorrow,' he said. 'I guess I lost shut of a day.' 'No, you're branding tomorrow,' Goodnight said.
'I hate to desert, but it's just the branding. You can handle it yourself.' 'Don't see why not,' Willie Bascom said.
'What's taking you off in a sleet storm?' Muley asked. Another habit he shared with many ranch cooks was inquisitiveness. It was not so much that he didn't mind his own business; he just didn't recognize that there was any business that wasn't his.
'I'm going on a wolf hunt,' Goodnight said. He finished his bacon and his coffee.
Cowboys were just beginning to crawl out of their bunks.
'These biscuits will be ready in another few minutes,' Muley said. 'You might as well wait and eat a few--you can't see to shoot a wolf when it's this dark, anyway.' 'No, I'll have to do without the biscuits,' Goodnight said. Despite the weather, he was impatient to leave. He had saddled his best horse, a big roan named Lacey. The horse's coat steamed as the snow melted on it.
'He had his pistol on,' Muley remarked, once Goodnight left. 'That's the last time I'll offer him biscuits, if he's always going to be in such a hurry.' 'It's been five years since I've seen him wear his pistol,' Willie Bascom said.
By the time the cowboys finished their breakfast, Goodnight was many miles to the south. The sleet had gotten heavier, but he didn't notice.
He had too much on his mind.
By the time Maria reached Ojinaga, her feet were badly cut from the icy, stony ground. Since leaving the railroad, Maria had walked without shoes. The train took the seven women east; the conductor was reluctant, but not so reluctant that he would leave seven women to die in the cold.
By then, Maria's shoes were gone. The wet snow and icy weather cracked them. She cut up the bag she had carried the jerky in and wrapped her feet in the sacking, but the sacking was thin and wore out within a few miles.
From then on, Maria was barefoot. She went slowly, avoiding cactus, trying not to cut herself on rocks or ice. Her food gave out when she was three days from the river. Since leaving the railroad, she had not seen a single human being.
The conductor had offered to take her to Fort Worth. What did one more woman matter? He told her she was a fool, to try to walk to Mexico in such weather. Mox Mox had taken two children from a ranch near Comstock. He could be anywhere. Any day, he might appear with his men and catch her. Speculation was that he had already burned the children, a boy of nine and a girl of six. If he caught Maria, she could expect a hard death.
The conductor grew irritated with the woman when he saw that she wasn't going to take his advice.
Maria merely looked at him, without expression, when he offered to take her on the train. He didn't like sullen women. Who was she, that she could turn down free passage to Fort Worth?
'My children don't live in Fort Worth--I would just have to come back,' Maria said. She wanted to be polite. After all, the man had accepted the seven women.
'You've got no shoes,' the conductor pointed out. Despite rough travel, the Mexican woman was good- looking. Once she was on the warm train and had some food in her, she might become friendlier. Perhaps she could be persuaded to show her gratitude for what he was doing for her friends.
'You've got no shoes,' the conductor said, again. He felt like dragging her onto the train.
It would be a kindness, in the end. It might save her life.
'No, but I have feet,' Maria said. She saw how he was looking at her--men were always men.
She had intended to ask for a little food, but when she saw the conductor's look, she turned and walked away from the train. Men were always men--she would have to find food elsewhere.
But she found no food. Only the sight of the mountains gave her the strength to keep walking.
Her children were west of the mountains. Crossing the Maravilla Canyon was very hard, though. She had to crawl up the far side.
The day before Maria got home, she saw three cowboys in the distance. She hid in the sagebrush until they were out of sight. They belonged to the big ranch. Perhaps they would remember her; if so, it might be hard. She was too tired and too weak to be worried with cowboys. If they were too hard on her, she might forget her children and die. She still wanted to take her children to the doctors, so that Rafael's mind and Teresa's eyes might be fixed.
It seemed a big thing to hope for, though. She was tired and hungry, alone, and with no money.
Even if she got home, she would have no money.
But it was only her hope for her children, however farfetched that hope might seem, that kept her will strong and gave her strength to keep putting her torn, swollen feet on the hard ground.
Rafael and Teresa had no one but her to think ahead for them, to consider how their lives might be if she could take them to the great doctors who knew how to cure eyes and fix minds.
Finally, Maria saw the curve of the river.
