AC dBooks

The old Indian stepped back and stiffened. His
sunken eyes blazed with hatred, but he made no sound or sign. He knew
that if he as much as lifted his hand the men would kill him. To him
they were the law, searching for a fugitive. The welt across his face
burned like the sear of fire--the cowardly brand of hatred on the
impassive face of primitive fortitude! This because he had fed a
hungry man and delayed his pursuers.
Long after the posse had disappeared down the far reaches of the
desert, the old Indian stood gazing toward the east, vaguely wondering
what would have happened to him had he struck a white man across the
face with a quirt. He would have been shot down--and his slayer would
have gone unpunished. He shook his head, unable to understand the
white man's law. His primitive soul knew a better law, "an eye for an
eye and a tooth for a tooth," a law that knew no caste and was as old
as the sun-swept spaces of his native land. He was glad that his
daughter had not been there. The white men might have threatened and
insulted her. If they had .


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