They camped that night in the barranca, and next morning a thin blue smoke a mile away drew Kit out on the roan even in the face of the heat to be, and the water yet to find. He hoped to discover someone who had been more fortunate in escape.
He found instead an Indian he knew, one whose gray hair was matted with blood and who stood as if dazed by terror at sound of hoofs. It was Miguel, the Pima head man of Mesa Blanca.
“Why, Miguel, don’t you know me?” asked Kit.
The eyes of the man had a strange look, and he did not answer. But he did move hesitatingly to the horse and stroked it.
“Caballo,” he said. “Muy bueno, caballo.”
“Yes,” agreed Pardner’s rider, “very good always.”
“Si señor, always.”
Kit swung from the saddle, and patted the old man’s shoulder. He was plainly dazed from either a hurt, or shock, and would without doubt die if left alone.
“Come, you ride, and we’ll go to camp, then find water,” suggested Kit. “Camp here no good. Come help me find water.”
That appeal penetrated the man’s mind more clearly. Miguel had been the well-trusted one of the Indian vaqueros, used to a certain dependence put upon him, and he straightened his shoulders for a task.