The words startled Adam. He dropped his head. “No—no! Thank you—I won’t—I can’t go,” he replied, trembling. The sound of his voice agitated him further.
“Boy, tell me or not, just as you please. But I’m a man you can trust.”
The kindness and a nameless power invested in this speech broke down what little restraint remained with Adam.
“I—I can’t go.... I’m an outcast.... I must hide—hide in the—desert,” burst out Adam, covering his face with his hands.
“Was that why you came to the desert?”
“Yes—yes.”
“But, boy, you came without a canteen or grub or burro or gun—or anythin’. In all my years on the desert I never saw the like of that before. An’ only a miracle saved your life. That miracle was Jinny’s eyes. You owe your life to a long-eared, white-faced burro. Jinny has eyes like a mountain sheep. She saw you—miles off. An’ such luck won’t be yours twice. You can’t last on this desert without the things to sustain life.... How did it happen that I found you here alone—without anythin’?”
“No time. I—I had to run!” panted Adam.
“What’d you do? Don’t be afraid to tell me. The desert is a place for secrets, and it’s a lonely place where a man learns to read the souls of men—when he meets them. You’re not vicious. You’re no—— But never mind—tell me without wastin’ more words. Maybe I can help you.”
“No one can—help me,” cried Adam.