My heart was in my mouth.
"That other matter?" I said.
"What other?" said he.
"You wanted me to do something for you in the old country."
"True," said he, and sat pondering; and then coming to a conclusion he wrote a name and address on another sheet, and putting it in an envelope, which he sealed, he said: "When you reach home you can open that, and—it should be easy enough to find out who lives there. If they are gone, you can trace them without anyone knowing what you are doing. They must never know about me, however. You will promise?"
"I promise," said I.
"You can write to—let me see—say, where shall I go now?—say Santa Fe—to be called for."
"Had you not better come home?" I asked half-fearfully, and he looked at me as twice I had seen him look,—once, when he silenced the "Dago" livery-stable keeper; once, when he silenced the sheriff. I knew Apache Kid liked me; but at that glance I knew he had never let me quite close to himself. There was a barrier between him and all men. But the look passed, and said he, slowly and definitely:
"I can never go home."
We went out into the air and sat silent till the east-bound whistled and whistled and screamed nearer and nearer.