At gray dawn he swung down from the back of the little stallion at the door of the Indian's hut.
Old Jake asked no questions.
The Ramblin' Kid himself volunteered:
"Killed a man—Sabota—got to lay low, Jake—some three, four, five days! Then I go—south—Mexico!"
"The Young Whirlwind had cause?" the Navajo grunted sententiously.
"Sure—plenty!" the Ramblin' Kid laughed, slipping his hand to his breast pocket and caressing the pink satin garter.
"It is good," the Indian said. "The Navajo will watch!"
For seven days the Ramblin' Kid rested, securely, in the lonely hut among the lavas and "pot-holes" of the desert. Then he saddled Captain Jack and when the full shadow of night had settled over the desolation about him mounted the little broncho and turned him to the south, in the direction of the Cimarron, toward the Quarter Circle KT, where the Gold Dust maverick waited, alone, in the corral.
Carolyn June could not sleep. The night was more than half gone and still she sat on the front porch and watched the gradual spread of a misty, silvery sheen over the brow of the bench and the distant peaks of the shadowy Costejo range as the pale moon, in its last half, lifted itself above the sand-hills at the gap through which the Cimarron tumbled out of the valley.
Old Heck and Ophelia had retired hours ago.