He thought of Marthy as she had been when he first met her in Dogtown - smart, pretty, and saucy - before the sun had turned the roses in her cheeks brown and the silence of the chaparral had tamed her ambitions.
"Ef I ever speaks another hard word to ther little gal," muttered Sam, "or fails in the love and affection that's coming to her in the deal, I hopes a wildcat'll t'ar me to pieces."
He knew what he would do. He would write to Garcia & Jones, his San Antonio merchants where he bought his supplies and sold his wool, and have them send down a big box of novels and reading matter for Marthy. Things were going to be different. He wondered whether a little piano could be placed in one of the rooms of the ranch house without the family having to move out of doors.
In nowise calculated to allay his self-reproach was the thought that Marthy and Randy would have to pass the night alone. In spite of their bickerings, when night came Marthy was wont to dismiss her fears of the country, and rest her head upon Sam's strong arm with a sigh of peaceful content and dependence. And were her fears so groundless? Sam thought of roving, marauding Mexicans, of stealthy cougars that sometimes invaded the ranches, of rattlesnakes, centipedes, and a dozen possible dangers. Marthy would be frantic with fear. Randy would cry, and call for dada to come.
Still the interminable succession of stretches of brush, cactus, and mesquite. Hollow after hollow, slope after slope - all exactly alike - all familiar by constant repetition, and yet all strange and new. If he could only arrive somewhere.
The straight line is Art.