“Told me what?” Mrs. Burton demanded with her usual impatience.
“That a storm is coming.”
The Indian pointed toward the southwest.
“Nonsense,” the young ranchman beside Polly replied. And then in a patronizing fashion: “The Indians out here think they are great weather prophets, and that they know the signs in the sky as well as we know the face of a clock.”
The young ranchman looked up at the sky and then sniffed the air.
“Not a sign of a storm that I can make out, and I was born and brought up in Arizona.”
“Oh, well; even if a storm does break on us, I suppose we can find refuge in our tents,” Mrs. Burton added, not specially interested in the subject of the weather at the present moment, and thinking that Tewa might have manufactured a more worthwhile excuse for his appearance.
In response the Indian said nothing, but the other man laughed.
“I don’t believe you realize what an Arizona storm toward the end of July may mean, Mrs. Burton. However, there is no reason for worrying tonight.”
Tewa turned away, not replying to Mrs. Burton’s vague invitation to remain.