You’re letting yourself get spooked, he thought irritably. Nothing crosses country in a straight line like a bird—except another bird.
He contrived to spend most of the day on the vantage point, though making frequent trips down to the house to check on Morna, to prepare two simple meals, and to boil water for washing the baby’s diapers. It pleased him to note that the child slept almost continuously between feeds, thus giving Morna plenty of opportunity to rest. At times Ruth’s phrase, ‘ready-made family’, came to his mind and he realized how appropriate it had been. Even in the bizarre circumstances which prevailed, there was something deeply satisfying about having a woman and child under his roof, looking to him and to no other man for their welfare and safety. The relationship made him something more than he had been. Although he did his best to repress the thought, the possibility suggested itself that, were Morna and he to flee north together, she might never return to her former life. In that case, he might indeed acquire a ready-made family …
Gregg shied away from pursuing that line of thought too far.
Late in the evening, when the sun was dipping towards the lower ranges beyond far Mexicali, he saw a lone horseman approaching from the direction of the Portfield ranch. The rider was moving at a leisurely pace, and the fact that he was alone was an indication there was no trouble afoot, but Gregg decided not to take any chances. He walked down the hill past the house, took the Remington from its hiding place in the shack, and went on down to take up his position on the spur of rock where the trail bent sharply. When the horseman came into view he was slumped casually in the saddle, obviously half asleep, and his hat was pulled down to screen his eyes from the low-slanted rays of the sun. Gregg recognized Cal Masham the young cowboy he had spoken to in the town on Friday.
“What are you doing in these parts, Cal?” he shouted.
Masham jerked upright, his jaw sagging with shock. “Billy? You still here?”
“What does it look like?”
“Hell, I figured you’d be long gone by this time.”
“And you wanted to see what I’d left behind—is that it?”
Masham grinned beneath the drooping moustache. “It seemed to me you’d leave those big heavy crocks of pulque, and it seemed to me I might as well have them as somebody else. After all …”
“You can have a drink on me any time,” Gregg said firmly, “but not tonight. You’d best be on your way, Cal.”
Masham looked displeased. “Seems to me you’re wavin’ that gun at the wrong people, Billy. Did you know that Wolf Caley’s dead?”
“I hadn’t heard.”
“Well, he is. And Big Josh’ll be home tomorrow. Max Tibbett rode in ahead this afternoon, and as soon as he heard about Wolf he took a fresh horse and rode south again to tell Josh. You just shouldn’t be here, Billy.” Marsham’s voice had taken on a rising note of complaint and he seemed genuinely upset by Gregg’s foolhardiness in remaining.
Gregg considered for a moment. “Come up and help yourself to a jar, but don’t make any noise—I’ve got a guest and a newborn baby I don’t want disturbed.”
“Thanks, Billy.” Masham dismounted and walked up the hill with Gregg. He accepted a heavy stone jar, glancing curiously towards the house, and rode off with his prize clasped to his chest.
Gregg watched him out of sight, put the Remington away, and decided he was entitled to a shot of whisky to counter the effects of the news he had just received. He crossed the familiar ruts of the buckboard’s turning circle and looked in through the front window of the house to see if Morna was in the main room. He had intended only to glance in quickly while passing the window, but the strange tableau within checked him in mid-stride.
Morna was dressed in her own blue maternity smock, which appeared to have been re-shaped to her slimmer figure, although Gregg had not noticed her or Ruth doing any needlework. She had spread a white sheet over the table and her baby was lying in the centre of it, naked except for the binder which crossed his navel. Morna was standing beside the table, with both hands clasping the baby’s head. Her eyes were closed, lips moving silently, her face as cold and mask-like as that of a high priestess performing an ancient ceremony.
Gregg desperately wanted to turn away, convinced he was guilty of an invasion of privacy, but a change was taking place in Morna’s appearance, and the slow progression of it induced a mesmeric paralysis of his limbs. As he watched, Morna’s golden hair began to stir as though it was some complex living creature in its own right. Her head was absolutely motionless, but gradually—over a period of about ten seconds—her hair fanned out, each strand becoming straight and seemingly rigid, to form a bright, fearsome halo. Gregg felt his mouth go dry as he witnessed Morna’s dreadful transformation from the normalcy of young motherhood to the semblance of a witch-figure. She bent forward from the waist until her forehead was touching that of the baby.
There was a moment of utter stillness—and then her body became transparent.
Gregg felt icy ripples move upwards from the back of his neck into his own hair as he realized he could see right through Morna. She was indisputably present in the room, yet the lines of walls and furniture continued on through her body as if she was an image superimposed on them by a magic lantern.
The baby made random pawing movements with his arms and legs, but otherwise appeared to be unaffected by what was happening. Morna remained in the same state, somewhere between matter and mirage, for several seconds, then quite abruptly she was as solid as before. She straightened up and Gregg could see that her hair was beginning to subside into its previous helmet-shape of loose waves. She smoothed it down with her hands and turned towards the window.
Gregg lunged to one side in terror and scampered, doubled over like a man dodging gunfire, for the cover of his buckboard which he had left on the blind side of the house. He crouched there, breathing noisily, until he was sure Morna had not seen him, then made his way to his customary spot at the top of the saddleback where he squatted down and lit a cigarette. Even with the same reassurance of tobacco, it was some time before his heart slowed to a steady rhythm. He was not a superstitious man, but his limited reading had taught him that there was a special kind of woman—known from Biblical En-dor to the Salem of more recent times—who could work magical cures, and who often had to flee from persecution. One part of his mind rebelled against applying that name to a child like Morna, but there was no denying what he had just seen, no getting away from all the other strange things about her.
He smoked four more cigarettes, taking perhaps an hour to do so, then went back to his house. Morna—looking as normal and sweet and wholesome as a freshly baked apple pie—had lit an oil lantern and was brewing coffee. Her baby was peacefully asleep in the basket Ruth had left for it. She had even removed her gold bracelet, as though deliberately setting out to make him forget that she was in any way out of the ordinary. When Gregg glanced into the darkness of the bedroom, however, he saw the ruby glow, flashing so quickly now that its warning was almost continuous.
And it was far into the night before he finally managed to sleep.
Gregg was awakened in the morning by the thin, lonely bleat of the baby crying. He listened to it for what seemed a long time, expecting to hear Morna respond, but no other sound reached him from beyond the closed door of the bedroom. No matter what else she might be, Morna had impressed Gregg as a conscientious mother and her prolonged inactivity at first puzzled and then began to worry him. He got up out of his bedroll, pulled on his pants and tapped the door. There was no reply, apart from the baby’s cries, which were as regular as breathing. He tapped again, more loudly, and pushed the door open.