“All right, boys,” called Big Medicine, “we’re coming.”
His big hand gripped the sore knuckles of Hashknife, and they went hand in hand back to the horses, which would soon take them out of the land of mañana and into a better tomorrow for Hawk Hole.
Behind them a mockingbird still called, “Peter.” Out at the corral a white-faced priest mumbled a prayer, as he saddled a swaybacked horse, while within the house the wrinkled face of Guadalupe peered over the edge of the trap door. He looked like a very old monkey, except that few have seen a monkey cry tears. Perhaps they were tears of remorse, but it must be remembered that Torres had promised him one hundred dollars in American gold. Quien sabe?
THE END