The Eye of the Hunter by Frank Bonham Read Free Book Online

suppose they felt it was disloyal to them—but he practiced there first when we came from the East for Mama’s health. He treated the governor’s family, and all the most important people in Hermosillo, as well as—”
    Rip blew a hooting note across the neck of the wine bottle and slugged down a mouthful. “Maybe he was a little too important—to you, that is....”
    â€œWhat do you mean?” Haughtily.
    â€œYou may be a married woman, Frances, but in your heart you’re still an old maid, and always will be. You’re the unnatural bride of that old horse-doctor of a father.”
    With hurt and rage she stared at him. Rip tickled her chin. Frances slapped his hand away.
    â€œKnow something, though?” Rip said. “The most important woman I ever had in my bed was you. That’s a fact, Panchita. Was fornication one of your subjects at ... where was it, Swarthmore?”
    â€œStevens,” Frances said, snatching up the carbine and thrusting it against his chest as he put his hands on her shoulders. Rip backed off, startled. The dog squared off to Frances and, snarling, showed its fangs. But Rip kicked at the animal and it slunk away.
    â€œJesus Christ, Frances!” He gasped. “Don’t you know yet when I’m funning you?”
    Frances rattled the bolt of the carbine. “I’m not funning you, Reep Parrish,” she said. “I’m warning you that you’ve laid a hand on me for the last time. I’m going back to the ranch now, and I’ll be gone when you come home.”
    â€œThen let’s shake hands on it,” Rip said. “It’s over and done with. Adios, and don’t come back.”
    Frances heard a door binge creak. Rip turned his head and called sharply: “Hey! What did I tell you?” In the dusk she saw a woman wearing a black rebozo come from the cabin. She carried a shawl with its corners drawn up to make a sack. Smiling shyly, she came to where she could speak to Frances. She was Mexican, young and pretty, with the Oriental features of Southern Mexico.
    â€œPlease say to him I am sorry. I go back now. ”
    Rip rubbed his face with his palms. He seemed tired and frustrated. “What’s she say?” he asked Frances.
    â€œShe’s leaving. I’m sorry, too,” Frances said to the woman. “I didn’t know he had company. I’m his wife. You don’t need to leave. I’m leaving, myself.”
    â€œNo, señora, excuse me, I must go. Adios, Reep.”
    Frances felt sorry for the woman, probably a prostitute from Nogales or Oro Blanco. Swinging the laden shawl onto her back, she smiled at Frances and said, “The rellenos are burning, señora. Adios.”
    â€œAdios, señorita. What is your name?”
    â€œCata-Catalina Cachora, a su servicio.”
    â€œMucho placer,” Frances murmured.
    The woman hurried off into the shadows, Rip’s dog trotting with her. A few moments later Frances heard a burro’s quick little hooves clattering up the trail. Then the carbine was suddenly torn from her hands, and Rip’s palm slapped her cheek. He lunged, got his arms around her, and picked her up. He smelled of sweat, wine, and sulfur. (Sulfur? she thought. Is he smelting ore out here?) Laughing, ripping her shirtwaist open and pretending to snap at her breast, he carried her toward the cabin like a vandal’s bride. Fiercely she struggled to scratch his face, to bite his neck, but he roared with laughter and locked her arms to her sides.
    She stopped struggling and tried to think. Papa had told her something about an acutely sensitive part of a man’s anatomy; that almost anything that happened to it, if it was forceful enough, was enough to “unman” him, as the saying went. When he reacted to her going limp by releasing her wrist, she reached down and squeezed and twisted with all her strength. Rip howled and sank to his knees,