AC dBooks

Food, sleep, and
physical freedom. He had once been in jail and had suffered as only
those used to the open sky suffer when imprisoned. The young vaquero
had eaten, and had food with him. His eyes had shown that he was not
in need of sleep. Yet he had all but said there would be men looking
for him.
The old Indian rose and picked up a blanket. In the doorway he paused,
surveying the western horizon. Satisfied that no one was in sight, he
padded out to where Andy had tied his horse and swept the blanket
across the tracks in the loose sand. Walking backwards he drew the
blanket after him, obliterating the hoof-prints until he came to a rise
where the ground was rocky. Without haste he returned and squatted in
the shack. He was patiently working on a silver piece when some one
called out peremptorily.
The old Indian's face was expressionless as he nodded to the posse of
cowboys.
"Seen anything of a young fella ridin' a blue roan and sportin' a black
hat?" asked Houck.
The Indian shook his head.
"He's lyin'," asserted a cowboy. "Comes as natural as breathin' to
him.


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