At the really steep part of the ascent she paused and looked at her watch. It was too late to go on: already she had been out an hour and the sun was starting to fall. She knew that sun and how it gained momentum. She dismounted and lay down on the grass, holding Blanco’s bridle and looking up at the sky. Long ago the cloud she had raced had won and gone sailing away, but there were more. Their shadows crossed her face and went on. Behind them the sky was a deep blue that had lost its noon ferocity and mellowed. She stirred and rolled her head farther back until Blanco’s head appeared grotesquely in the way, calm and cowlike as he munched grass. A dribble of green froth barely missed her head. She rolled away. “You pig.” Blanco stamped and leaned down for another mouthful, nosing her shoulder out of his way. “You’re a darling,” she said idly and comfortably. “Aren’t you an old darling?” He blinked a huge eye and went on chewing. “We’ve got to go. Do you know that?” she asked. She stood up and looked down at the valley for a moment. It was streaked with yellow; patches of yellow flowers that were much more glaring now in the slanting light, unbleached. The sun was deepening to orange: Santa Fé was almost too small to be noticed except as part of a great scheme of colour. A breeze stirred the pine-branches and lifted her hair-ribbon. It smelled almost salty, as if those misty stretches beyond Jemez were indeed the sea. “Oh, it’s lovely.” She threw her arms around Blanco’s neck: he was nearer than any tree, and as unprotesting. She slapped him on the flank, climbed up, and dug him in the ribs to start him down the slope, jouncing uncomfortably. It was quite dark when she trotted into the stable yard. The streets were quiet and lifeless. She tied up the horse and unsaddled him, then turned him into the corral, where he shook himself and walked over to the other side with a dignified, heavy gait. There was a light in the living-room, so she stepped up to the screen door and peered in. Tom was sitting on the cot with his head in his hands, and he didn’t look up when she knocked. Somewhat mystified, she called him and he raised his head. “Come in,” he said, as if he did not recognize her. It was very queer. Her clear sense of health and content evaporated. She stepped in and glanced around, at the bottle on the table and the glass on the floor next to his feet. Usually when Tom drank he grew jovial. Was he sick? “Have a drink?” he said, dutifully. “Not now, thanks. Not just before dinner.” Unbidden, she sat down in a hide chair and watched him curiously. “Say, what’s the matter with you? Don’t you feel well?” “Me? I’m all right.” He leaned over and took the bottle by the neck. “I’m all right. I just got some private news, bad news, that’s all.” “I’m sorry. Can I help?” He shook his head. “Somebody’s dead.” “Why? Do I know them?”