stle
rises and reaches, possessing the architect, who cherishes its slow
creation with hourly changes and additions to the plan. A house was part
of Genesmere's castle, a home with a wife inside, and no more camping
alone. Thus far, to this exact ledge, the edifice had gone forward
fortunately, and then a blast had crumbled house and days to come into
indistinguishable dust. The heavy echo jarred in Genesmere, now that he
had been lured to look again upon the site of the disaster, and a
lightning violence crossed his face. He saw the two down there as they
had stood, the man with his arms holding the woman, before the falling
stone had startled them. Were the Mexican present now in the flesh, he
would destroy him just for what he had tried to do. If she were
true--She was true--that was no thanks to the Mexican. Genesmere was
sorry second thoughts had spared that fellow yesterday, and he looked at
his watch again. It was time to be starting on the Tucson trail, and the
mules alertly turned their steps from the Tinaja Bonita. They could see
no good in having come here. Evidently it was not to get water. Why,
then? What use was there in looking down a place into a hole? The mules
gave it up. Genesmere himself thought the Tinaja poorly named. It was
not pretty. In his experience of trail and canon he knew no other such
hole. He was not aware of the twin, dried up, thirty yards below, and
therefore only half knew the wonders of the spot.

He rode back to the forks across the rolling steepness, rebuilding the
castle; then, discovering something too distant to be sure about, used
his glass quickly. It was another rider, also moving slowly among the
knolls and gullies of the mesa, and Genesmere could not make him out. He
was going towards the cabin, but it was not the same horse that Luis had
ridden yesterday. This proved nothing, and it would be easy to circle
and see the man closer--only not worth the trouble. Let the Mexican go
to the cabin. Let him go every day. He probably would, if she permitted.
Most likely she would tell him to keep away from her. She ought to. She
might hurt him if he annoyed her. She was a good shot with a pistol. But
women work differently from men--and then she was Mexican. She might
hide her feelings and make herself pleasant for three weeks. She would
tell him when he returned, and they would laugh together over how she
had fooled this Luis. After all, shooting would have been too much
punishment