Mr. Rumford ventured still further. "I was just telling Mr. Carruthers about the legends of the Perdenelas tribe. Do you know if they really exist or if they're merely mythical?"
"I can tell you nothing."
"You're an Indian, aren't you?" Mr. Carruthers asked. "Mr. Rumford here said that other Indians know something about these Perdenelas stories. Why don't you tell us what you know?" he added with a somewhat superior, condescending air.
The Indian's eyes were piercing as he gazed at the man from St. Louis, and his voice held a hint of irritation. "I said that I can tell you nothing about the Perdenelas."
Mr. Rumford was clearly annoyed with the arrogance of the Indian and decided to put him in his place. "I'm a Butterfield Stage Line representative, and it's our usual policy that Indians ride topside if they are allowed to board the Butterfield Line at all."
The stranger's gaze and voice hardened. "Your agent took my gold, and I will ride here."
"Well, uh, you seem civilized, so I'm sure there's no harm in your riding here as far as the way station," Mr. Rumford blustered in irritation.
The Indian turned to look out the window.
Makinna studied his profile. She had seen handsome men before, but none as handsome as this one. His cheekbones were high and pro nounced, his jaw square and strong, and altogether his face was as beautiful as any chiseled in stone. She was ashamed of her own comments and of the way Mr. Rumford and Mr. Carruthers had treated him. She wondered what he must be thinking about his fellow travelers. There was a guarded tension in him, and she sensed something powerful and dangerous about him. Once again, she was grateful for her veil so the Indian would not know that she was studying him so intently.
Then, as if he sensed her gaze on him, the Indian turned his head to look at her, and she had the sensation that he could see right through the veil. Her heart began to beat so fast that she could hardly breathe. Her hand instinctively went to the door handle and she gripped it tightly. For a fleeting moment, she thought she detected something haunted in his expression, but it was quickly replaced by a look of sardonic amusement. Finally he looked away and turned his gaze out the window.
The rest of the afternoon was spent in uncomfortable silence, even Mr. Rumford having ceased trying to make conversation.
Makinna was relieved when the coach ultimately came to a rocking halt. They had arrived at Adobe Springs. Mr. Rumford helped her from the stage, and when she entered the station house, she was greeted by a thin pinched-looking woman who introduced herself as Mrs. Browning. The woman instantly began to chat, but Makinna pleaded weariness and asked to be shown directly to her room.
Mrs. Browning looked disappointed as she led the way. "We hardly ever get any female travelers out here. I'd be pleased to sit and talk a spell with you."
"I beg you to forgive me, but I am tired, and I have a headache. I want no more than to lie down for a while."
Mrs. Browning's mouth tightened. "Well, if that's the way you want it. I'll have my husband bring in your grip."
"Thank you." After the tense hours with the Indian on the stage, she didn't want to talk to anyone; she just wanted to be left alone.
When Mrs. Browning departed, Makinna looked about the small chamber off the back of the main room. It was cramped, the only furniture a narrow cot and a washstand with a pitcher of water. She sat on the lumpy mattress and leaned back against the adobe wall. The bedding was surprisingly clean, smelling of lye soap.
But the room was so hot that her hair was plastered to her forehead. With a sigh, Makinna stood to remove her veil. Stepping to the open window, she hoped for a breath of fresh air. But a dry wind parched her throat, and suddenly tears blurred her vision.
Life as she'd known it was over. She was left with only sorrow and an uncertain future. She tried to push her troubled thoughts aside and instead study the landscape. But this stark country appeared to have no color-it looked lifeless, empty. The adobe way station and its outbuildings were the same dull tone as the ground and the distant hills. The only growing things seemed to be an occasional cactus and scraggly stalks of straw-colored grass poking through the hard, cracked ground.
In that moment, Makinna longed for the lushness of New Orleans. Could any place this side of hell be as hot and dry and miserable as Adobe Springs? She thought of green Louisiana fields, where horses frolicked, and the Mississippi, where paddlewheel boats floated lazily along the current.
A shadow fell across her view, and she quickly pulled away from the window. It was the Indian walking past. He was tall, and his stride was long, but she caught a quick glimpse of his face before he moved away. She gasped at the singular impression of a man tortured in mind and soul.