“Yes. Who were you working for?”
“Don’t remember his name. He was a Mexican.”
“Must have been one of the camps of Antonio Valdez.”
“Yes, that’s it. That’s the name.”
“Only he runs his sheep in the Galiuros,” she demurred.
“Is it the Galiuros? Those Spanish names! I can’t keep them apart in my mind.”
She laughed with hard, young cruelty. “It is hard to remember what you never heard, isn’t it?”
The man was on the rack. Tiny beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead. But he got a lip smile into working order.
“Just what do you mean, Miss Lee?”
“You had better get your story more pat. I’ve punched a dozen holes in it already. First you tell me you are from the East, and even while you were telling me I knew you were a Southerner from the 30 drawl. No man ever got lost from Mammoth. You gave a false name. You said you had been herding sheep, but you didn’t know what an outfit is. You wobbled between the Galiuros and the Catalinas.”