Roads there were, but Luis avoided
roads as though they carried the plague. When he must cross one he invariably
turned back and brushed out their footprints--until he discovered that
Annie-Many-Ponies was much cleverer at this than he was; often he smoked a
cigarette while Annie covered their trail. Three days and three nights, and
Ramon was not there where they stopped for the third day.
"We go slow," Luis explained nervously because of the look in the black,
unreadable eyes of this straight, slim Indian girl who was so beautiful--and
so silent. "They go muy fas', Ramon an' Beel. Poco tiempo--sure, we fin' dem
little soon."
Annie-Many-Ponies did not betray by so much as a quiver of an eyelash that
Luis had mentioned Bill unwittingly. But she hid the name away in her memory,
and all that day she sat and pondered over the meager facts that had come her
way, and with the needle of her suspicion she wove them together patiently
until the pattern was almost complete.
Ramon and Bill--what Bill, save Bill Holmes, would be with Ramon? Ramon and
Bill Holmes--memory pictured them again by the rock in the moonlight,
muttering in Spanish mostly, muttering mystery always.
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