He marked the camp where their horses had been stolen from them and told how
long they had waited there until the horses of their own accord returned to
camp; thirteen horses, he explained to the old Navajo. He drew a rough square
to indicate the square butte, sketched the fork of the trail there and told
how four men had turned to the north on a false trail, while he and four
others had gone around the southern end of the hill. He calmly made plain that
at the end of both false trails a trap had been laid, that Indians had fired
upon white men and for no just cause. Why was this go? Why had Indians
surrounded them back there in the grove and tried to kill them? Why were
Indians shooting at them from the ledge of rocks that circled this little
basin? They had no quarrel with the Navajos. They were chasing thieves, to
take them to jail.
Folded swelteringly in his red blanket the old Indian sat humped forward a
little, smoking slowly his cigarette and studying the sketch Luck had drawn
for him. With aching head and parched throat and hungry stomach, Luck sat
cross- legged on the hot sand and waited, and would not let his face betray
any emotion at all.
Pages:
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252