It irritated Pete that he could not recall old man
Annersley's face distinctly. He could remember his voice, and one or
two characteristic gestures--but his face--
Pete stared into the camp-fire, dreaming back along that trail over
which he had struggled and fought and blundered; back to the time when
he was a waif in Enright, his only companion a lean yellow dog . . .
Pete nodded and his eyes closed. He turned lazily and leaned back
against his saddle.
The mesa, carpeted with sod-grass, gave no warning of the approaching
horseman, who had seen the tiny fire and had ridden toward it. Just
within the circle of firelight he reined in and was about to call out
when that inexplicable sense inherent in animals, the Indian, and in
some cases the white man, brought Pete to his feet. In that same
lightning-swift, lithe movement he struck his gun from the holster and
stood tense as a buck that scents danger on the wind.
Pete blinked the sleep from his eyes. "Keep your hands right where
they be and step down off that hoss--"
The rider obeyed. Pete moved from the fire that his own shadow might
not fall upon the other.
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