He pulled the folded paper out, spread
it before the other and pointed to the article that told of the robbery. "Call
some young man of your tribe who can read," he signed. "Let him read and tell
you if I have spoken the truth."
The Indian took the paper and looked at it curiously.
Now, unless Applehead or some other hot-head spoiled things, Luck believed
that things would smooth down beautifully. There had been some
misunderstanding, evidently--else the Indiana would never have manifested all
this old-fashioned hostility.
The blanketed one showed himself a true diplomat. "Call one of your white men,
that there may be two and two," he gestured. And he added, with the first
words he had spoken since they met, "Hablo espanol?"
Well, if he spoke Spanish, thought Luck, why the deuce hadn't he done it at
first? But there is no fathoming the reticence of an Indian--and Luck, by a
sudden impulse, hid his own knowledge of the language. He stood up and turned
toward the rocks, cupped his hands around his lips and called for the Native
Son. "And leave your rifle at home," he added as an afterthought and in the
interests of peace.
The Indian turned to the rim-rock, held up the fragment of newspaper and
called for one whom he called Juan.
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