"You
don't know where to get water, get grub."
"Oh, I'll pick it up as I go."
The Indians stared at Enoch in the firelight. His ruddy hair was
tumbled by the night wind. His face was deep lined with fatigue that
was mental as well as physical.
"You mustn't go alone in desert." John Red Sun's voice was earnest.
"You sleep here to-night. We'll talk it over."
"You're very kind," said Enoch. "I'll unsaddle my pony. Ought I to
hobble him or stake him out?"
"I fix 'im. You drink your coffee." The brother handed Enoch a tin
cup as he spoke. "Then you go to sleep. You mucho tired."
Their hospitality touched Enoch. "You're very kind," he repeated
gratefully, and he drank the vile coffee without blinking. Then,
conscious that he was trembling with weariness, he rolled himself in
his blankets. But he slept only fitfully. The sand was hard, and his
long afternoon's nap had taken the edge from his appetite for sleep.
He spent much of the night wondering what Washington, what the
President was saying about him. And his sunburned face was new dyed
with his burning sense of shame.
At the first peep of dawn, John Red Sun rose from the other side of the
fire, raked the ashes and started a blaze going.
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