"Hello," he cried, "back already?"
Mrs. Vining regarded the unkempt figure with composure.
"Why don't we drive on?" she said. "Drive on, please."
"Who's that? Who's that, I say?" The prospector advanced on the buckboard at a shambling trot.
"Please, please drive on," Mrs. Vining entreated faintly.
Instead of obeying, the Mexican waited. The prospector came to the wheel of the buckboard and peered hard at Mrs. Vining. She met his gaze in a sort of horrified fascination for a moment and then turned completely about in her seat, so that her shoulders were to him. Before we could intervene, he seized her by the arm and commenced to drag her out. He was mumbling as he did so.
"No, I won't go," she screamed. "It wasn't my fault. I won't go. Help! Help me!"
Lafe spurred almost on top of the fellow and cut at him with a quirt. He released his hold and dodged, and Mrs. Vining sank back into the buckboard.
"Hi, you—drive on," Johnson commanded.
He made no attempt to chastise the prospector. A demented man is not responsible and is protected of God. Such is the creed of primitive peoples and to it Lafe held strongly. Manuel whipped the mules and we went by the mountain prowler amid a shower of sand and pebbles. He remained in the trail, staring after us. He shouted something and whirled his arms at a great rate, but when Lafe cantered back, he scurried off among the mesquite like a scared rabbit.