Tom Brannon had caught up with the outfit shortly after the Maguires joined it, which had been at midday. He'd come alone, without his wife and child. He'd been in an angry mood: Conchita had thought his face almost ugly with the anger in him.

She wondered what had taken place in town, between him and his wife. She wished that she could talk to her mother about it. Not that her mother knew what had happened, but they could speculate upon it. But her mother would rebuke her if she mentioned it, and say that it was none of her concern.

``Pat, get out of that creek! You too, Sean! Elena, you'll get mud all over your dress!''

Even as she called to the children, Conchita let her gaze seek Tom Brannon. Tomas, she called him -- as the Mexican hands did. He was in earnest conversation with her father and the old vaquero, Luis Hernandez. Whatever they are talking about? Conchita wondered.

It bothered her that she probably would never know. Certainly, she wouldn't dare ask her father afterward. He would tell her not to pry into grownups' affairs -- as though she were a little kid like Elena!

At the moment, the three men were not saying much of anything. They were sitting on their heels, rider fashion, over by the still empty calf wagon. Brannon was hunkered down with his broad back to the left rear wheel, with the other two facing him. He held a cigarette in his right hand. It was burning away, forgotten. His face was clouded with unhappiness.