“I get you.  Your girl is out looking after the goats, and you aim to kind of surprise her with a full set of buttons when she gets back.  She’ll ask you right quick where you got ’em, eh?”

A faint grin touched the old Indian’s mouth.  The young vaquero was of the country.  He understood.

“Well, it beats me,” said Andy.  “Now, a white man is all for the big money.  He’d take the dollar, get it changed, and be two-bits ahead, every time.  But I got to drift along.  Say, amigo, if any of my friends come a-boilin down this way, jest tell ’em that Pete—­that’s me—­was in a hurry, and headed east.  Sabe?”

“Si.”

“Pete—­with the black sombrero.”  Andy touched his hat.

“Si.  ‘Pete.’”

“Adios.  Wisht I could take a goat along.  That milk was sure comfortin’.”

The herder watched Andy mount and ride away.  Then he plodded back to the shack and busied himself patiently soldering tiny rings on the silver pieces, that the set of buttons for his daughter’s jacket might be complete.  He knew that the young stranger must be a fugitive, otherwise he would not have ridden into the desert so hurriedly.  He had not inquired about water, nor as to feed for his horse.  Truly he was in great haste!

Life meant but three things to the old Indian.  Food, sleep, and physical freedom.  He had once been in jail and had suffered as only those used to the open sky suffer when imprisoned.  The young vaquero had eaten, and had food with him.  His eyes had shown that he was not in need of sleep.  Yet he had all but said there would be men looking for him.

The old Indian rose and picked up a blanket.  In the doorway he paused, surveying the western horizon.  Satisfied that no one was in sight, he padded out to where Andy had tied his horse and swept the blanket across the tracks in the loose sand.  Walking backwards he drew the blanket after him, obliterating the hoof-prints until he came to a rise where the ground was rocky.  Without haste he returned and squatted in the shack.  He was patiently working on a silver piece when some one called out peremptorily.

The old Indian’s face was expressionless as he nodded to the posse of cowboys.

“Seen anything of a young fella ridin’ a blue roan and sportin’ a black hat?” asked Houck.

The Indian shook his head.

“He’s lyin’,” asserted a cowboy.  “Comes as natural as breathin’ to him.  We trailed a hoss to this here wickiup”—­the hot lust of the man-hunt was in the cowboy’s eyes as he swung down—­“and we aim to see who was ridin’ him!”

Houck and his three companions sat their horses as the fourth member of the posse shouldered the old Indian aside and entered the shack.  “Nothin’ in there,” he said, as he reappeared, “but somebody’s been here this mornin’.”  And he pointed to the imprint of a high-heeled boot in the sand of the yard.

“Which way did he ride?” asked Houck, indicating the footprint.