“You got rifle?” the boy asked anxiously.
“Me got um. On North Fork.”
“Hide out, eh? Buried?”
“Hé,” Charlie laughed mockingly. “I find um.”
Indeed, Charlie Paul was no fool. White men were not taking away his gun. He had it where he could reach it when needed.
“We go now?” the Indian asked.
“No, Charlie. Horse too tired. Picket the ponies. We eat and sleep. Moonup we go. Save horses, keep him fresh. Breakfast time we come by ranch. Ride like hell then. You savvy?”
“Me savvy.”
For the time being Johnny gave up any thought of old Thunder Bird or Crosbie Traynor. He cursed aloud whenever he thought of Molly married to Gallup. Well, it would never come to pass. Not if he had to kill the man.
After sundown they rode to the trader’s store and bought supplies enough to last them a week. Before twilight was over they were out of Elk Valley and heading for the North Fork. Sunup found them hovering close to the ranch. Rose Creek, a branch of the North Fork, flowed past the house. As usual with desert creeks, its course was marked by a screening of willows and buckthorn. In this cover Johnny left Charlie Paul with their ponies and a led one which the Indian had obtained from the old chief.