“That’s in Arizona, is it?”
“I think so.”
“How did you come to be in Camp Broncho? Who left you there?”
“Oh, I can’t remember much about it. Once there was a man named Black Dorson, and I used to play the fiddle for him and get money for him, and he beat me; but one night he was shot, and after that I lived the best way I could.”
The masked man advanced into the room and placed the lamp on a small table.
“You don’t remember anything about yourself before you lived with Black Dorson?”
“I don’t seem to remember much. Sometimes I almost remember, but it is like a dream.”
“What is it you almost remember?”
“Oh, I can’t tell! I can’t tell! It is all confused! I think it must be a dream, for I know it cannot be true. It seems that once I had a home and was not a little miserable hunchback that everybody kicked and cursed.”
Again the man stood still some moments, staring at the boy.