Rawley waved a hand toward the rocky ravine. “You heard me shoot,” he reminded her. “Missed him--with that heirloom Johnny carries. He was running like a jackrabbit when I saw him last. Well, I think you’re right--but I hate to trouble you folks. Though I’d trouble the president himself, for Johnny Buffalo’s sake.” “It’s a strange name,” she remarked irrelevantly, stooping and making ready to lift his knees. “He must be a Northern Indian.” “Born in this district,” Rawley told her. “Grandfather found him in the desert when he was a kid. I suppose he gave him the name--regardless.” Until they reached the trail there was no further talk, their breath being needed for something more important. They laid the injured man down in the shade of a greasewood, and the girl immediately left to bring the old squaw. She was no sooner gone than Johnny Buffalo opened his eyes. “It was Queo,” he said, huskily whispering. “I thought he was shooting at you. I tried to kill him. But the damn gun is old--old. It struck me hard. I did not shoot straight. I did not kill him. Queo looked, he saw me and he shot as he ran away. The gun has killed many--but I am old--” “You’re all right,” Rawley interrupted. “Quit blaming yourself. You saved two women by shooting when you did. Queo was afraid to stay and shoot again when he knew there was a gun at his back. He has gone down the ravine where we came up.” “Who was the white girl?” Even Johnny Buffalo betrayed a very masculine interest, Rawley observed, grinning inwardly. But he only said: “I don’t know. She was on the trail, with an old squaw and two burros. It was they that Queo was laying for, evidently. Don’t try to talk any more, till I get you where we can look after you properly. Where’s your pack? I didn’t see it, up there.” “It is hidden in the juniper. I did not want to fight with a load on my back.” “All right. Don’t talk any more. We’ll fix you up, all fine as silk.” The girl was returning, and after her waddled the squaw, reluctant, looking ready to retreat at the first suspicious move. Rawley stood aside while the girl gave her brief directions in Indian,--so that Johnny Buffalo could understand, Rawley shrewdly suspected, and thanked her with his eyes. The squaw sidled past Rawley and sat down on the bank, still staring at him fixedly. His abrupt appearance and the consequent stampede of the burros had evidently impressed her unfavorably. The look she bestowed upon Johnny Buffalo was more casual. He was an Indian and therefore understandable, it seemed. The narrow canyon lay sun-baked and peaceful to the hard blue of the sky. With the lightness which came of removing the pack from his shoulders, Rawley walked up the trail and around the turn to where the burro called Deacon still lay patiently on his back in the narrow watercourse below the trail. He slid down the bank and inspected the lashings of the pack.