The night
was fine and clear; outlined against the sky were the stalks of
countless sotol-plants standing slim and bare, like the upright
lances of an army at rest; ahead the road meandered across a mesa,
covered with grama grass and black, formless blots of shrubbery.
Father O'Malley groaned and shifted his weight. "Juan tells me
we'll never reach Romero by morning, at this rate," he said; and
Dave was forced to agree. "I think you and he and Alaire had
better go on and leave Dolores and me to follow as best we can."
Dolores plaintively seconded this suggestion. "I would rather be
burned at the stake than suffer these agonies," she confessed. "My
bones are broken. The devil is in this horse. "She began to weep
softly. "Go, senora. Save yourself! It is my accursed fat stomach
that hinders me. Tell Benito that I perished breathing his name,
and see to it, when he remarries, that he retains none of my
treasures."
Alaire reassured her by saying: "We won't leave you. Be brave and
make the best of it."
"Yes, grit your teeth and hold on," Dave echoed. "We'll manage to
make it somehow."
But progress was far slower than it should have been, and the
elder woman continued to lag behind, voicing her distress in
groans and lamentations.
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