Bill shook his head emphatically. "Never, nowheres."
Jimmy turned reproachfully. "Lookit how he 's follered us."
"Follered you," hastily corrected Bill. "He ought to. You feed an' scratch him, an' he 'll go anywhere for that. But he 's big," he conceded.
"Mostly wolf-hound," guessed Jimmy, proudly.
"He looks like a wolf—God help it—at th' end of a hard winter."
"Well, he ain't yourn!"
"An' won't be, not if I can help it."
"He ain't no good, is he?" sneered Jimmy.
"I wouldn't say that, Kid," grunted Bill. "You know there 's good Injuns; but he looks purty healthy right now. Why did n't you call him Hank? They look—Good G—d!" he exclaimed as he glanced through an opening in the hills. The ring of ashes that had been a corral still smoldered, and smoke arose fitfully from the caved-in roof of the adobe bunkhouse, whose beams, weakened by fire, had fallen under their heavy load.
"Injuns!" whispered Jimmy. "Not gone long, neither. Mebby they ain't all—ain't all—" he faltered, thinking of what might lie under the roof. Bill, nodding, rode hurriedly to the ruins, wheeled sharply and returned, shaking his head slowly. There was no need to explain Apache methods to his companion, and he spoke of the Indians instead. "They split. About a dozen in th' big party an' about eight in th' other. It looks sorta serious, Kid."