She'll ask you right quick where you got 'em, eh?"
A faint grin touched the old Indian's mouth. The young vaquero was of
the country. He understood.
"Well, it beats me," said Andy. "Now, a white man is all for the big
money. He'd take the dollar, get it changed, and be two-bits ahead,
every time. But I got to drift along. Say, amigo, if any of my
friends come a-boilin down this way, jest tell 'em that Pete--that's
me--was in a hurry, and headed east. Sabe?"
"Si."
"Pete--with the black sombrero." Andy touched his hat.
"Si. 'Pete.'"
"Adios. Wisht I could take a goat along. That milk was sure
comfortin'."
The herder watched Andy mount and ride away. Then he plodded back to
the shack and busied himself patiently soldering tiny rings on the
silver pieces, that the set of buttons for his daughter's jacket might
be complete. He knew that the young stranger must be a fugitive,
otherwise he would not have ridden into the desert so hurriedly. He
had not inquired about water, nor as to feed for his horse. Truly he
was in great haste!
Life meant but three things to the old Indian.
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