Everything about La Feria was restfully un-American,
from the house itself, with its bare walls and floors, its
brilliantly flowering patio, and its primitive kitchen
arrangements, to the black-shawled, barefooted Indian women and
their naked children rolling in the dust. Even the timberless
mountains that rose sheer from the westward plain into a tumbling
purple-shadowed rampart were Mexican. La Feria was several miles
from the railroad; therefore it could not have been more foreign
had it lain in the very heart of Mexico rather than near the
northern boundary.
In such surroundings, and in spite of faint misgivings, it was not
strange that, after a few days, Alaire's unhappiness assumed a
vaguely impersonal quality and that her life, for the moment,
seemed not to be her own. Even the thought of her husband, Ed
Austin, became indistinct and unreal. Then all too soon she
realized that the purpose of her visit was accomplished and that
she had no excuse for remaining longer. She was now armed with
sufficient facts to make a definite demand upon the Federal
government.
The lieutenant took charge of the return journey to the railroad,
and the two women rode to the jingling accompaniment of metal
trappings.
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