The woman had gifts, one had to admit—she played “Barbara Allen” so sweetly that to my embarrassment I was soon in tears again. First I thought of Joe in his shallow grave, and then of Simp and Happy Jack and the other sweethearts, all dead; next, the memory of my nine daughters plucked hard at my heartstrings; then I thought of Kate Molloy, whom I had lost for no reason at all, and of hopes and yearnings without end. I cried so hard that I couldn’t see, and came near to falling off the creek bank, blubbering shamelessly.

Billy was embarrassed by such a display, but once I got my sight back, I noticed that Cecily was merely looking at me over the harmonica out of cool gray eyes, pleased, I’m sure, that her music had had such an effect.

“Don’t mind him, he’s a Yankee,” Billy said. I suppose he was afraid my blubbering would drive Cecily away—which only shows how little he knew about women, this one in particular.

“Oh, Billy, we’ve lost Joe,” I mumbled finally. “It was a terrible, terrible thing.”

“Did the nigger really cut his head off?” Billy asked.

I merely nodded.

“Well, that’s the talk in San Jon, but I didn’t know whether to credit it,” Billy said.

“It’s true,” I said. “I was less than twenty feet away at the time, but I had no inkling it was about to happen.”

“Dern it, I’ll never know what was wrong with Joe to let it happen,” Billy said with some annoyance.

“But he was unarmed, Billy,” I said.

“Not when the race ended,” Billy said. “That’s not what the Indians say.”

Of course, I didn’t know then that many Navaho and even a few Apache had been spectators to the race.

“They went through the Indian lands,” Billy said. “Some of the Indians followed them. They say at the end the tall nigger was too tired even to lift his big knife. Joe could have shot him easy, but he shot the camel instead, and then, instead of grabbing a horse from the Indians and running away, he borrowed two horses and rode back with the nigger. Now why would he do that?”

To me, it sounded as if Joe had saved Mesty-Woo-lah, who then killed him. I didn’t know what to make of it, nor did Billy, but we were soon set right by the crisp insight of Lady Snow.

“It takes a talent to kill,” Cecily said. “That cowpoke didn’t have it.”

Billy looked at her as raptly as if she were the Oracle of Heaven, though she had only made a rather brutal point.

“That’s right.” Billy said. “Joe couldn’t even shoot that nigger with the man standing there helpless.”

“Do you think you’d make a better job of it, Billy?” Cecily asked.