Weston turned sideways in his saddle.
“That’s a considerable yarn, son.”
“Tell it,” exclaimed Roy, enthusiastically. “I’ve been waitin’ for years to hear a real story that ain’t been in a book.”
“Ye kin be sure this ain’t been in no book. As fur bein’ real—see that?”
He loosened the shirt-sleeve of the left arm and revealed a long white furrow on the back of his arm just below the elbow.
“Thar’s whare the boss o’ the Sink Hole, the white High Mucky-Muck o’ the Lost Injuns plugged me. It’s real all right.”
“The Lost Indians?” Roy exclaimed. “You mean the Indians no white man has ever seen?”
“Sink” Weston shook his head with a half smile.
“I seen ’em. An’ he seen ’em.”
“He? Who?” persisted Roy.