nt off into a
long recital of certain extremely bloody chapters in the history of
that famed county as chronicled by one Bud Welch, otherwise known as Big
Medicine--and not because of his modesty, you may be sure.

Noon of that day found them plodding across a high, barren mesa under a
burning sun. Since red dawn they had been riding, and the horses showed
their need of water. They lagged often into a heavy-footed walk and
their ears drooped dispiritedly. 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.

Luck started to dismount and make some attempt at a polite request for
water, and for information as well, but Applehead objected and finally
had his way.

If the squaws could speak English, he argued, they would lie unless they
refused to talk at all. As to the water, if there was any around the
place the bunch could find it and help themselves. "These yer Navvies
ain't yore Buffalo-Bill Sioux," he pointed out to Luck. "Yuh can't treat
'em the same. The best we kin look fer is to be left alone--an' I'm
tellin' ye straight."

Luck gave the squalid huts a long stare and turned away toward the
corral and a low shed that served as a stable. A rusty old mower and a
toothless rake and a rickety buckboard stood baking in the sun, and a
few stunted hens fluttered away from their approach. In the corral a
mangy p