Bare Hands

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The country was rolling. Between the long hills draws stretched back to the purple mountains. In the early morning the wind blew gently down these draws, and the breeze was tainted with carrion. For this was Mexico, and, in Mexico, it frequently happens that the cool morning breeze carries the taint of carrion, particularly when it sweeps gently down sloping draws.

At the mine three men gazed over the landscape with anxious eyes. They were too accustomed to the carrion smell to notice it or comment upon it.

“We should get help to-day.”

Vincent Shaffer, immaculate, clean-shaven, spoke with nervous rapidity.

Robert Standish was older by thirty years. His eyes had bleached into expressionless calm. He gave the impression of one whose soul had soaked up emotions until, like a piece of old blotting paper, it had no more power to absorb.

“The relief,” he said, “would probably be as bad for us as the other.”

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