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Abruptly he spoke, “Now please, I need to be alone.”
His footprints formed a trail in the dust as the blind old man created his absence, leaving Maria behind. Her eyebrows stitched together, both to block out the burning sun and watch the blind elder walk into the plains, his hunched back and wrinkled hand clutching on the support of his decrepit wooden stick. The clicking of coins he accumulated in his rusting can faded the more their distance stretched, more than likely from coins he gained from other travelers curious and bored on a long trip as Maria was.
Might’ve been a waste of money, however valuable a dollar really was to Maria. What the blind man had told her, whether his words held truth or were just words from another con artist, it wouldn’t have mattered. Everything he spoke reached Maria's ears as just borderline incoherent sentences the dreadful language English concocted. She let out a huff of breath before marching down to her horse’s rear, opening a bag to fish out a leather covered journal and fountain pen.
“You frit to the flames…” Ink stopped flowing. Her pen struck against the journal’s side a couple of times in thought, her back resting against her horse. A miracle she was able to catch as many words as she did, but the rest managed to slip away from her. What purpose would that sentence even serve her in day-to-day conversation? Not even Maria really understood what she wrote down. She glossed over all the other writings tainting the pages, scribbled out dialogue or small notes for certain words to remember.
“El diablo..” Maria cursed under her breath. She snapped the book shut and stuffed it back into its respective compartment. Whatever the blind man had said would have to remain between him and God.