“Look!  Darn me if thet ain’t a naked Indian comin’!”

The riders whirled to see an apparently nude savage approaching, almost on a run.

“Take a shot at thet, Bill,” said another rider.  “Miss Lucy might see—­No, she’s out of sight.  But, mebbe some other woman is around.”

“Hold on, Bill,” called Macomber.  “You never saw an Indian run like thet.”

Some of the riders swore, others laughed, and all suddenly became keen with interest.

“Sure his face is white, if his body’s red!”

The strange figure neared them.  It was indeed red up to the face, which seemed white in contrast.  Yet only in general shape and action did it resemble a man.

“Damned if it ain’t Joel Creech!” sang out Bill Stark.

The other riders accorded their wondering assent.

“Gone crazy, sure!”

“I always seen it comin’.”

“Say, but ain’t he wild?  Foamin’ at the mouth like a winded hoss!”

Young Creech was headed down the road toward the ford across which he had to go to reach home.  He saw the curious group, slowed his pace, and halted.  His face seemed convulsed with rage and pain and fatigue.  His body, even to his hands, was incased in a thick, heavy coating of red adobe that had caked hard.

“God’s sake—­fellers—­” he panted, with eyes rolling, “take this—­’dobe mud off me! . . .  I’m dyin’!”

Then he staggered into Brackton’s place.  A howl went up from the riders and they surged after him.

That evening after supper Bostil stamped in the big room, roaring with laughter, red in the face; and he astonished Lucy and her aunt to the point of consternation.

“Now—­you’ve—­done—­it—­Lucy Bostil!” he roared.

“Oh dear!  Oh dear!” exclaimed Aunt Jane.

“Done what?” asked Lucy, blankly.

Bostil conquered his paroxysm, and, wiping his moist red face, he eyed Lucy in mock solemnity.

“Joel!” whispered Lucy, who had a guilty conscience.

“Lucy, I never heard the beat of it. . . .  Joel’s smarter in some ways than we thought, an’ crazier in others.  He had the sun figgered, but what’d he want to run through town for?  Why, never in my life have I seen such tickled riders.”

“Dad!” almost screamed Lucy.  “What did Joel do?”

“Wal, I see it this way.  He couldn’t or wouldn’t wait for sundown.  An’ he wasn’t hankerin’ to be burned.  So he wallows in a ‘dobe mud-hole an’ covers himself thick with mud.  You know that ’dobe mud!  Then he starts home.  But he hadn’t figgered on the ‘dobe gettin’ hard, which it did—­harder ‘n rock.  An’ thet must have hurt more ‘n sunburn.  Late this afternoon he came runnin’ down the road, yellin’ thet he was dyin’.  The boys had conniption fits.  Joel ain’t over-liked, you know, an’ here they had one on him.  Mebbe they didn’t try hard to clean him off.  But the fact is not for hours did they get thet ’dobe off him.  They washed an’ scrubbed an’ curried him, while he yelled an’ cussed.  Finally they peeled it off, with his skin I guess.  He was raw, an’ they say, the maddest feller ever seen in Bostil’s Ford!”