The old herder shook his head.  “Quien sabe?” he grunted, shrugging his shoulders.

“Who knows, eh?  Well, you know—­for one.  And you’re goin’ to say—­or there’ll be a heap big bonfire right here where your shack is.”

Meanwhile one of the men, who had pushed out into the desert and was riding in a circle, hallooed and waved his arm.

“He headed this way,” he called.  “Some one dragged a blanket over his trail.”

The cowboy who was afoot strode up to the herder.  “We’ll learn you to play hoss with this outfit!” He swung his quirt and struck the Indian across the face.  The old Indian stepped back and stiffened.  His sunken eyes blazed with hatred, but he made no sound or sign.  He knew that if he as much as lifted his hand the men would kill him.  To him they were the law, searching for a fugitive.  The welt across his face burned like the sear of fire—­the cowardly brand of hatred on the impassive face of primitive fortitude!  This because he had fed a hungry man and delayed his pursuers.

Long after the posse had disappeared down the far reaches of the desert, the old Indian stood gazing toward the east, vaguely wondering what would have happened to him had he struck a white man across the face with a quirt.  He would have been shot down—­and his slayer would have gone unpunished.  He shook his head, unable to understand the white man’s law.  His primitive soul knew a better law, “an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth,” a law that knew no caste and was as old as the sun-swept spaces of his native land.  He was glad that his daughter had not been there.  The white men might have threatened and insulted her.  If they had . . .  The old herder padded to his shack and squatted down, to finish soldering the tiny rings on the buttons for his daughter’s jacket.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE BLACK SOMBRERO

When Andy had ridden far enough to feel secure in turning and riding north—­in fact, his plan was to work back to the Concho in a wide circle—­he reined in and dismounted.  From a low ridge he surveyed the western desert, approximated his bearings, and had his foot in the stirrup when he saw four tiny dots that bobbed up and down on the distant sky-line of the west.  He had left an easy trail to follow and the pursuers were riding hard.  They were still a long distance from him.  He led his horse down the far side of the ridge and mounted.  He rode straight east for perhaps a quarter of a mile.  Then he turned and at right angles to his trail sped north behind the long, low, sandy ridge.  He could not be seen until the posse had topped it—­and even then it was probable they would fling down the slope, following his tracks until they came to where he had turned.  Straight ahead of him the ridge swung to the left.  In half an hour or so he would again cross it, which he hoped to do before he was