"Wall," said he, "you've been letting out enough sleep through yo' nose to run an engine. Goin' to make this yo' home?"
"The camp's moved?"
"Sure. I've sent the Britisher's waggons down to Holy Cross. He bought the place from a Mexican last month."
"Is it far?"
"About twenty mile. I've been down there this morning. I reckon the people there had smelt Apaches and run. It was empty, and that's why I'm making this talk to you. I cayn't spare my men after to-day, and I don't calculate to leave a sick man and a lil' boy thar alone."
"I'll stay with them," said I.
"That's good talk. If you-all need help by day make a big smoke on the roof, or if it's night just make a flare of fire. I'll keep my outfit near enough to see."
"You reckon there'll be Indians?"
"None. That was a stray band, and what's left of it ain't feeling good enough to want scalps. But when I got to Holy Cross this morning I seen this paper, and some tracks of the man who left it nailed on the door. I said nothing to my boys, and the Britisher has worries enough already to keep him interested, but you ought to know what's coming, in case of trouble. Here's the paper.
"'Grave City, Arizona,
"'3rd February, 1886.
"'My Lord,
"'This is to tell you that in spite of everything you could do to destroy me, I'm safe in this free country, and doing well. I've heard of the horrible crime you committed in driving the poor people from your estate in Ireland, from homes which we and our fathers have loved for a thousand years. Now I call the holy saints to witness that I will do to you as you have done to me, and to my people. The time will come when, driven from this your new home, without a roof to cover you, or a crust to eat, your wife and boy turned out to die in the desert, you will plead for even so much as a drink, and it will be thrown in your face. I shall not die until I have seen the end of your accursed house.
"'(Sd.) George Ryan.'