He took it out of the green bag, twanged the strings with his fingers, tuned it, and began to play.
No sooner had the strains of “Money Musk” floated among the tepees than a man appeared, jumping hurriedly out of one. He was a white man, small of frame. A blanket was round him, covering his ordinary clothing, and his face had been smeared with grease and dirt. As he was clean shaven, with that blanket on him he looked, at a little distance, like one of the Utes.
“I t’ought it would fetch him!” muttered the fiddler, with a smile. “He was hiding.”
The blanketed white man was quickly at the fiddler’s side.
“How did you get here?” he demanded.
White-eyed Moses stopped fiddling, extended his hand, and smiled.
“My feet brought me. How you are?”
“Good. What’s the news downtown?”
“Juniper Joe is still in chail.”