r 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.

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