The curio-dealer puckered his lips. Then, significantly, he touched his head with his finger.
“He’s honest enough. But, hereabouts, we all kind o’ consider him a little off—cracked in the upper story.”
[CHAPTER IX]
IN THE CANYON OF THE SAN JUAN
Long before night came, Sink Weston’s one-wagon train had crossed McElmo Creek and was well down toward the Mesa Verde. The evening campfire was almost within the shadow of the old Aztec cliff home. The Cortez curio-dealer’s suggestion that Weston was a “little off” had bothered Roy a great deal; but his early apprehension had worn off somewhat as he failed to detect any outward signs of “crackedness” in the old guide.
Naturally Roy associated Weston’s vague references to the “Lost Indians” and the “old man of the sink hole” with what the storekeeper had said. And, as he thought the matter over, he finally concluded: “We are all a little daffy in some line. I suppose I’m crazy over aeroplanes. If Sink has a soft spot or peculiarity, why should I bother about it?”
However, concluding that the “sink hole” story, whatever it was, might be Weston’s hallucination, the lad decided to say no more about it.
In the gray-blue shadows of the Mesa Verde, Weston and Roy picketed their ponies and made camp. Long before Doolin came up with the wagon, they had collected wood and made a fire. The stars were showing when the wagon arrived. Then followed Roy’s first camp experience.