But he was
still too close to the railroad and possible discovery to allow himself
this luxury. By the time he had finished his bath the overalls were
dry and the blue flannel shirt enough so for him to risk donning it.
He rolled up his tweed suit and tied it to the saddle, fastened the
blankets on in an awkward bunch, the cooking utensils dangling
anywhere, the canteen suspended from the pommel. Then he smiled at his
reflection in the morning pool.
The overalls, a faded brown, were patched and, of course, wrinkled and
drawn. The blue shirt was too small across the chest and Enoch found
it impossible to button the collar. The soft hat was in keeping with
costume, but the Oxford ties caused him to shake his head.
"A dead give-away! I'll have to negotiate for something else when I
find the Navajos. All right, Pablo," to the horse, "we're off," and
the pony started northward at a gentle canter.
The desert was new to Enoch. Neither his Grand Canyon experience nor
his hunting trips in Canada and Maine had prepared him for the
hardships and privations of desert travel. Sitting at ease on the
Indian pony, his hat well over his eyes, his pots and pans clanging
gently behind him, he was entirely oblivious to the menace that lay
behind the intriguing beauty of the burning horizon.
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