Even Big Medicine found nothing cheerful to say. Luck
went out of his way to gain the top of every little rise, and to scan the
surrounding country through his field glasses. The last time he came sliding
down to the others his face was not so heavy with anxiety and his voice when
he spoke had a new briskness.
"There's a ranch of some kind straight ahead about two miles," he announced.
"I could see a green patch, so there must be water around there somewhere.
We'll make noon camp there, and maybe we can dig up a little information.
Ramon must have stopped there for water, and we'll find out just how far we
are behind."
The ranch, when they finally neared it, proved to be a huddle of low,
octagon-shaped huts (called hogans) made of short cedar logs and plastered
over with adobe, with a hole in the center of the lid-like roof to let the
smoke out and a little light in; and dogs, that ran out and barked and yelped
and trailed into mourning rumbles and then barked again; and half-naked
papooses that scurried like rabbits for shelter when they rode up; and two
dingy, shapeless squaws that disappeared within a hogan and peered out at one
side of the blanket door.
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