“It’s sure time to go,” he told himself, sorrowfully, “But I hate to.”
He turned to the hiding-place in the chimney and secured the buckskin bags, and the papers.
“There’s that to attend to, too,” he murmured, fumbling the rumpled and stained sheets.
“It’s been a good place,” he thought, as he shut the door of the shelter, and looked about outside. “To think what I was when I came here. Whatever ... yes, it’s the truth: it’s been the making of me.”
He came and stood beside Broome.
“You get on the burro,” he said.
The man demurred. “I’d rather walk,” he objected.
“I didn’t ask you what you’d rather do,” was the reply. Gard was in no mood to bandy words, and a look at his face convinced the other that obedience was best.
When he was settled Gard proceeded to blindfold him, whereat the cowman swore fiercely under his breath.
“I’ll tell you now, Broome,” Gard said, when he felt sure that the blindfold was secure, “You’ve got nothing to be afraid of long ’s you behave yourself. I won’t leave you in the desert, but I’ll run no risk of your ever finding your way back here. You wear that blind till I see fit to take it off, and that’ll be when we’re good and well away on the plain.”