Now Cable’s glasses moved over the wind-scarred face of the adobe, following the one-armed man’s gaze to the grove of willows and the river hidden beyond the hanging screen of branches.

A girl came out of the trees carrying a bucket and Cable said, “There’s Luz again. Here-” He handed the glasses to his wife who was kneeling, sitting back on her legs, one hand raised to shield her eyes from the sun glare.

Martha Cable raised the glasses. After a moment she said, “It’s Luz Acaso. But still it doesn’t seem like Luz.”

“All of a sudden she’s a grown-up woman,” Cable said. “She’d be eighteen now.”

“No,” Martha said. “It’s something else. Her expression. The way she moves.”

Through the glasses, the girl crossed the yard leisurely. Her eyes were lowered and did not rise until she reached the platform and started up the steps. When she looked up her face was solemn and warm brown in the sunlight. Martha remembered Luz’s knowing eyes and her lips that were always softly parted, ready to smile or break into laughter. But now she wore an expression of weariness. Her eyes went to the man on the platform, then away from him quickly as he glanced at her and she passed into the store.

She’s tired, or ill, Martha thought. Or afraid.

“She went inside?” Cable asked.

The glasses lowered briefly and Martha nodded. “But he’s still there. Cable, for some reason I think she’s afraid of him.”

“Maybe.” He watched Martha concentrating on the man on the platform. “But why, if Denaman’s there?”

“If he’s there,” Martha said.

“Where else would he be?”

“I was going to ask the same question.”

“Well, let’s take it for granted he’s inside.”

“And Manuel?” She was referring to Luz’s brother.

“Manuel could be anywhere.”

Martha was still watching the man on the platform, studying him so that an impression of him would be left in her mind. He was a tall man, heavy boned, somewhat thin with dark hair and mustache. He was perhaps in his late thirties. His left arm was off between the shoulder and the elbow.