found at the ranch-house.  A posse would naturally head for the ranch to search and ask questions.  Fed and housed he might oversleep and be caught.  Then his service to Pete would amount to little.  But if he rode in at daybreak, ahead of the posse, ate and departed, leaving a hint as to his assumed identity, he could mislead them a day longer at least.  He built all his reasoning on the hope that the posse would find and follow his tracks.

Under the silent stars he slept, his head on his saddle, and near him lay Pete’s black sombrero.

In the disillusioning light of morning, that which Andy had taken to be a ranch-house dwindled to a goat-herder’s shack fronted by a brush-roofed lean-to.  Near it was a diminutive corral and a sun-faded tent.  The old Indian herder seemed in no way surprised to see a young rider dismount and approach cautiously—­for Andy had entered into the spirit of the thing.  He paused to glance apprehensively back and survey the western horizon.  Andy greeted the Indian, who grunted his acknowledgment in the patois of the plains.

“Any vaqueros ride by here this morning?” queried Andy.

The herder shook his head.

“Well, I guess I got time to eat,” said Andy.

A faint twinkle touched the old Indian’s eyes, but his face was as expressionless as a dried apple.

“Si,” he said.

“But not a whole lot of time,” asserted Andy.

The Indian rose and fetched a pail of goat’s milk and some tortillas from the shack.  He shuffled back to his hermitage and reappeared with a tin cup.  Andy, who meanwhile had consumed one leathery tortilla, shook his head.  “Never mind the cup, amigo.”  He tilted the pail and drank—­paused for breath, and drank again.  He set the pail down empty.  “I was some dry,” he said, smiling.  “Got any more of these rawhide flapjacks?”

The herder nodded, stooped to enter the shack, and came out with a half-dozen of the tortillas, which Andy rolled and stuffed in his saddle-pocket.  “Mighty good trail bread!” he said enthusiastically.  “You can’t wear ’em out.”

Again the herder nodded, covertly studying this young rider who did not look like an outlaw, whose eye was clear and untroubled.  Well, what did it matter?—­a man must eat.

The old Indian had given unquestioningly from his poverty, with the simple dignity of true hospitality.  As for who this stranger was, of what he had done—­that was none of his affair.  A man must eat.

“I’m payin’ for this,”—­and Andy proffered a silver dollar.

The other turned the piece round in his fingers as though hesitating to accept it.

“Si.  But has not the senor some little money?”

“That’s all right, amigo.  Keep it.”

The herder shook his head, and held up two fingers.  Andy smiled.  “I get you!  You don’t aim to bank all your wealth in one lump.  Lemme see?  All I got left is a couple of two-bit pieces.  Want ’em?” The herder nodded and took the two coins and handed back the dollar.  Then he padded stolidly to the shack and reappeared, bearing a purple velvet jacket which was ornamented with buttons made from silver quarters.  He held it up, indicating that two of the buttons were missing.  “Muchacha,” he grunted, pointing toward the south.