When he was all ready and went to the door he turned back as Mr. Wilde spoke.
“We’re going to take some shots of the Plaza here, Westy! It used to be the western terminus of the Old Trail. If you don’t find us here when you get back take a stroll on down.”
A few minutes later Westy was hurrying through quiet, narrow, unpaved streets, lined on each side with one-story adobes.
Some Santa Feans strolling leisurely along in the mid-afternoon sun stopped to turn and look after Westy’s slim figure, so gorgeously arrayed in complete scout attire.
Westy was unconscious of any stares, however. He walked on indifferent to the picturesque Tesuque Indian with his black hair bound with its scarlet bandeau and brilliantly colored blanket.
The cries of the newspaper boys with their English and Spanish papers he left behind as he entered the residential district, where one could see at first glance that the adobes here were much larger and more pretentious.
Inquiring the way of a very Spanish-looking gentleman, Westy felt quite grown up as that honorable Don greeted him with a “Buenos dias, señor!”
He walked away after he had been given the information, but had only gone a few feet when the Don called him back. He nodded ahead in the direction of a boy about Westy’s age who was standing in conversation with an older boy.
“That is the young Señor Mitchell just ahead,” the man told him.