He walked on past the dobe huts and on to the mesa. He heard the coyotes--different from any time before. There was no moon and the stars were indistinct, run together in the heat haze. Bob Leadley took off his hat; drops of sweat held by the tight hatband, dropped down on his face. He had to laugh at himself--the feelings that rolled and tumbled over each other within. Nobody would have believed it of him--feelings to keep a secret of. It was as if some one he had always been waiting for, had come to town--not yet seen, a friend or enemy, he couldn’t tell, but a life-or-death meaning to the arrival. Running steps reached him from behind; a panting voice calling: ‘Bob! Bob!’ ‘Hello, Mort,’ he answered as the other came up, the tone so quiet and cool, it was almost whimsical. ‘What you doing away off here?’ ‘She didn’t want me there.’ ‘It’s a boy, Bob, only--’ ‘I thought as much.’ ‘It’s a boy all right, only she--they say she ain’t going to live.’ The mother was already dead, but this was Mort Cotton’s way of softening the shock for a friend. The same easy tone answered: ‘Guess we’d better walk back.’ ‘I wouldn’t hurry, if I was you. Bob. I’ll run back if you like and get the rest of the word.’ * * * * * It was her doings that they called the child Bart, after some saint of her religion. She had a lot of saints, one for every day or so--a Spanish woman, and she hadn’t asked much, come to think of it. The oddest thing Bob Leadley had ever done was to marry her. He never would have thought better of it, except it made a difference in the town. It would make more of a difference now--leaving a boy with her blood in his veins. They wouldn’t call it ‘Spanish’ blood in Bismo. Mexicans weren’t held high on this side of the Border.... Queer little birdlike ways, she had--little vanities and secrets--always shrinking farther indoors in daylight, always more alive in the night time. She had sung and cooked and washed for him; pleasant to be with, but he never really knew her. She was like ripe fruit that couldn’t last--pleasant to the taste and pretty to look at, but nothing much for real hunger. Come and gone with her curious ways, her brightenings up in the dark--only asking one thing--that the boy be called after this particular one of her saints, and ‘Bart’ was as good a name as any.