The afternoon wore along slowly, the minutes seemed to pass like miles under a mule’s feet. Longarm had eaten his lunch as slowly as he could, savoring the good food and reflecting that at least he was being fed well. He found himself looking forward to his next visit by the mysterious woman. He didn’t know what time the regular hour was for supper, but it had been a late lunch, so he didn’t calculate she’d come in with supper much before seven o’clock. He kept speculating about her, wondering who she was, where she had come from, what she was doing in such a place, wondering why she thought so little of herself. In her last visit, he had noticed that she had grayish-blue eyes. They hadn’t been dulled, they had been bright, lively and intelligent. The woman was a mystery, and no mistake. He only wondered if she was a mystery he could first solve and then make use of—he was becoming desperate. He’d been in his cell, as he thought of it, not quite twenty-four hours and already he had realized that he couldn’t take much more of it. He was careful about the whiskey. He had determined that he would drink only in the evenings, maybe one in the morning. It would be too easy to get drunk and not be able to take advantage of an opportunity when it presented itself. Lord, he thought, what he would give for a gun. Over and over, he berated himself for leaving his hideout gun in his valise. If that damned Earl Combs hadn’t been kicking up such a fuss, it would have all gone so much better. He’d have had the derringer and he could have gotten the drop on the pistolero and relieved him of his sidearm and then he would have seen how matters turned out. Mr. Brown might have gotten the surprise of his life.
The afternoon wore on. He had explored the room about as well as any room had been explored. In his stocking feet, he had stepped off the width and the length of the room and found out that it was about fifteen by eighteen foot. He’d looked under the bed, he’d looked behind the pictures. He had scanned every square inch of the tiled floor. There wasn’t a weapon or an amusement to be had. He thought of tearing up the table, taking a leg from it, and trying to bash in the head of one of the pistoleros. But that wouldn’t work because they had, apparently, taken the habit of staying away from the door now. They hadn’t seemed concerned about the woman and that made him wonder. But he found himself counting the minutes, never mind the hours, until she would show up with his supper. About all that he could do to pass the time was pace back and forth. It wasn’t the most enjoyable or the most enlightening hobby he’d ever practiced. And besides that, it was hard on his socks, but he knew better than to wear out his boot leather on such an activity. After a day of walking over the small square tiles, he had decided that the best description for a mean woman was that she had a heart as hard and cold as a Mexican tile. There were a few in his past that he could have laid that label on.
Finally, he saw the sun begin to drop. He hoped that supper was coming soon. He wasn’t particularly hungry, but he was hungry to see the woman, hungry to pierce her mystery. It would probably turn out that there was no mystery. She was somebody’s half-witted cousin who was given scullery work to keep her out of the way. But he didn’t really believe that; there was too much intelligence in those gray-blue eyes of hers. It didn’t really matter; she obviously had orders not to talk to him. All he would get out of her was a severe look.
When she finally came that night, it caught him off guard. He was lying on the bed, half dozing, still wearing only a pair of jeans with no shirt. The sound of the lock being turned caught him just waking up. He rose to a sitting position, blinking drowsily as she came into the room. He was not so sleepy, though, as to not notice that she was no longer wearing the robe. She was wearing a long dress that fell down to her ankles. It wasn’t a particularly pretty dress, nor did it fit her very well, but it was a vast improvement over the bulky robes. The dress was blue with small white print on it and it was a thin enough material so that he could see her shape beneath it. He didn’t know if it was because he’d been without so long, but all he knew was that she looked mighty good to him. She went straight to his table and started unloading dishes. He could see that he was going to have fried chicken and creamed corn and mashed potatoes for supper that night along with a big glass of what he took to be iced tea and a pot of coffee. There was the same apple cobbler for dessert.
He got off the bed and took two steps toward her. She glanced up quickly at him. He said, “Don’t be afraid. You don’t have to be skittish around me.”
She didn’t answer. She looked back down at the table and began arranging the dishes in the proper order.
Longarm glanced down the hall. There was no sign of a pistolero on guard. He asked the woman, “What’s your name?”
Without looking up, she gave him a shrug and said, “What does it matter?”
He was surprised that she had answered, he had been half afraid that she was mute. Her voice also surprised him. It was a cultured voice, not the voice of a woman who had known nothing but the rough frontier. There was no trace of a Spanish accent in it. He said, “It matters to me. I’m getting plenty lonely in here. My name, as I guess you know, is Custis Long. I’m a U.S. deputy marshal.”
She still wouldn’t look up. She said, “I know.”
Longarm noticed that she had tied her hair back with a gay blue ribbon and wondered if she had done it for him. He asked, “Why don’t you tell me your name. I’d like to be able to call you something.”
She said, “I still don’t see what it matters. We won’t be talking that often.”
“Humor me.”
“All right, it’s Sarah. Are you happy?”
Longarm laughed slightly. He said, “Happy? No. A little bit better off? Yes.”
She picked up her tray. “I’ve got to go.”
Longarm glanced again through the open door and down the corridor. He asked, “Where’s your guard?”
“There’s no need for one. The only door out of this part of the house is down the hall. You couldn’t make it through that door. It leads into the main part of the house.”
Longarm said, “Yeah, but what if I was to grab you around the neck so that you went to screaming bloody murder and took you as a hostage like they’ve taken me as a hostage. What about that?”
She laughed without mirth. She said, “It wouldn’t make any difference.”
“What do you mean, it wouldn’t make any difference?”
She said, “No one would care is what I mean. In fact, the man that you call Mr. Brown, if he were here, would probably be standing in the hall applauding you and urging you on.”
Longarm looked at the woman keenly. He said, “I take it that he’s no friend of yours.”
“Friend?” She laughed bitterly. “That’s a joke.”
“You said the man that calls himself Brown. What’s his real name?” Longarm said.
She looked up at him with an amused look in her eyes. “I’m not ready to get killed yet. I don’t think you can expect me to tell you that. I’ve got to go now.” She clutched the tray to her breasts and began backing toward the door.
Longarm said, “Wait a minute. Could you at least bring me some books to read? Anything to pass the time. Hell, bring me an old deck of cards.” He ran his hand over his face. “And this beard stubble is starting to itch. See if you can’t get me a razor. Surely they don’t think I can cut my way out of here with a straight razor. And I need a toothbrush and some salt and baking soda. Hell, my mouth feels like the inside of my boot.”
She said, “I’ll see what I can do. I have no authority here, I’m just a servant.” Then she backed through the door, closing it behind her. He heard the lock click and he was alone again.
Two long dreary days passed. The only bright spots were Sarah’s visits when she came in the morning and then at lunch and at supper. She was a hard one to draw out, try as Longarm would. All he really got out of her was her name and that she worked at the hacienda. He tried to provoke her by asking what a white woman was doing in such a menial position, but she wouldn’t answer him. She didn’t refuse to answer his questions, she simply evaded them or remained mute. As best as he could, he tried to draw her out about conditions at the hacienda, such as how many men were there, where it was located, how far it was from the border. He had figured in his own mind, judging from the ride he had made, that it was about twenty miles from Laredo. He had asked her if this was true, but she didn’t answer. She merely shook her head.