As Pete entered the adobe, a thin, listless Mexican woman—­Flores’s wife—­called to some one in an inner room.  Presently Flores’s daughter appeared, supple of movement and smiling.  She greeted Malvey as though he were an old friend, cast down her eyes at Pete’s direct gaze, and straightway disappeared again.  From the inner room came the sound of a song.  The young stranger with Malvey was good-looking—­quite worth changing her dress for.  She hoped he would think her pretty.  Most men admired her—­she was really beautiful in her dark, Southern way—­and some of them had given her presents—­a cheap ring, a handkerchief from Old Mexico, a pink and, to her, wonderful brush and comb.  Boca Dulzura—­or “pretty mouth” of the Flores rancho—­cared for no man, but she liked men, especially when they gave her presents.

When she came from her room, Malvey laughingly accused her of “fixing up” because of Pete, as he teased her about her gay rebosa and her crimson sash.  She affected scorn for his talk—­but was naturally pleased.  And the young stranger was staring at her, which pleased her still more.

“This here hombre is Pete,” said Malvey.  “He left his other name to home.”  And he laughed raucously.

Pete bowed, taking the introduction quite seriously.

Boca was piqued.  This young caballero did not seem anxious to know her—­like the other men.  He did not smile.

“Pete,” she lisped, with a tinge of mockery in her voice.  “Pete has not learned to talk yet—­he is so young?”

Malvey slapped his thigh and guffawed.  Pete stood solemnly eying him for a moment.  Then he turned to the girl.  “I ain’t used to talkin’ to women—­’specially pretty ones—­like you.”

Boca clapped her hands.  “There!  ‘Bool’ Malvey has never said anything so clever as that.”

“Bool” Malvey frowned.  But he was hungry, and Flores’s wife was preparing supper.  Despite Boca’s pretty mouth and fine dark eyes, which invited to conversation, Pete felt very much alone—­very much of a stranger in this out-of-the-way household.  He thought of his chum Andy White, and of Ma Bailey and Jim, and the boys of the Concho.  He wondered what they were doing—­if they were talking about him—­and Gary.  It seemed a long time since he had thrown his hat in the corner and pulled up his chair to the Concho table.  He wished that he might talk with some one—­he was thinking of Jim Bailey—­and tell him just what there had been to the shooting.  But with these folks . . .

The shadows were lengthening.  Already the lamp on Flores’s table was lighted, there in the kitchen where Malvey was drinking wine with the old Mexican.  Pete had forgotten Boca—­almost forgotten where he was for the moment, when something touched his arm.  He turned a startled face to the girl.  She smiled and then whispered quickly, “It is that I hate that ‘Bool’ Malvey.  He is bad.  Of what are you thinking, senor?”