Her mother wept, too, but silently, and strove to sooth Paloma by patting her on the shoulder. Her own tears she dried against the scarlet shawl, after she had smiled a sad greeting through them. “Do not cry,” said Father José, wiping surreptitiously at his cheeks with a flowing corner of the silk square. “Because Miguel isn’t dead,” declared Señor John. “The dogs have only wounded him probably, and he’s run away to hide.” The words of comfort had an effect opposite to that desired. Paloma’s sorrow mounted. She threw herself upon her knees, clinging now to her mother’s dress, and now catching at the black skirt of the father, and “Oh! oh! oh!” she sobbed. “I’m going to start right out and hunt him,” said the young painter. “If he’s dead, I’ll find his body.” The father shook his head doubtfully. “Maybe,” he said. “But you forget, señor, the deer is good to eat.” “At _this_ time of the year?” asked the other, significantly. At that the two men exchanged glances of meaning. Then, “Let us hunt until we know,” advised Father José, in a low tone. “And, meanwhile, let us say nothing.” He laid a finger on his lips. Paloma had listened--between sobs--to what was being said. Now, she sprang up excitedly. “Know?” she cried. “I know this moment. _He_ did it! None needs to tell me different. Every day he has come. ‘Marry me or give back the ring,’ he has said. And I have said, ‘No,’ to both. And he has done this to revenge himself. The rattlesnake!” The next moment she straightened resentfully, and stared past Señor John and the father. Then, “Rattlesnake!” she cried again, and stamped a foot. The others turned about, and beheld Anastacio sauntering down the path that led from the pueblo to the chapel. He returned their look defiantly--almost triumphantly--and took off his sombrero in a wide, mocking sweep. There was that in the gesture which made the father resolve on a rebuke. “Anastacio!” he called peremptorily, and hurried toward the vaquero, his eyes severe, his thin face flushed even up his bald forehead to the roots of his white hair. “Anastacio,” he said, as he neared the path, “the cock that crows the loudest catches the eye of the cook.” The vaquero’s eyes widened in innocent wonderment. “What is it that I have done?” he questioned, in an aggrieved voice. “Miguel is gone. It was a coward’s trick, I say, even though he nibbled my roses.” “Miguel gone! Since when, father? Alas! Too bad! But if a man is in Albuquerque all the night----” he pulled at his moustache. “Where do you visit in Albuquerque? You busy yourself with gambling, I have no doubt, or with drinking--surely some sin. Where?” “At Riley’s, father, on the street which has a car. There till midnight. Then, at Georgio’s, for the stupid Riley shuts his door when it is twelve.” “So? I trust you do not think to throw ashes in my eyes. For I get the truth always, do I not?” Then, suddenly pointing, “I see that you crossed the river _on foot_.”