“Oh, yes. I know how, but I couldn’t hit a flock of barns.”
“You must carry it just the same,” returned the Indian. “But don’t do any practicing. Keep your eyes open for any one who may be prowling around and don’t let them see you if you can avoid it. This stranger may be a hunter or a prospector—he may be an officer—he may be something else. I shall know before I see you again.”
Taking his bow and quiver of arrows, the Indian went out into the night.
For two days and nights Hugh Edwards was alone. Then Natachee returned.
When the Indian had eaten, with the appetite of a man who has been long hours without food, he said:
“The man who talked with you is called Sonora Jack. He is a half-breed Mexican; his real name is John Richards.
“For several years this Sonora Jack, with a band of Mexicans and white outlaws, operated in this section of the Southwest. They rustled cattle, robbed trains, looted banks and stores, and held up everybody they chanced to run across. With their headquarters somewhere south of the line, it was not so easy for the United States authorities to capture them, but after a particularly cold-blooded murder of a poor old couple who were traveling by wagon through the country, the officers and the people were so aroused that Sonora Jack, with a large reward on his head, moved on to other less dangerous hunting grounds. It is generally believed that he went south somewhere in Mexico.”
“But are you sure that it was this same Sonora Jack that called on me?”
The Indian smiled.
“As sure as I am that you are Donald Payne.”