“Kids are honest in their manners,” Rawley replied, “and that’s more than grown-ups can say. I reckon these youngsters wonder what the deuce has been taking place. I’d want an eyeful, myself, if I were in their places.” Nevada did not answer but led the way past the shacks, which did not look particularly inviting, to a rock-faced building with screened porch that faced the river, its back pushed deep into the hill behind it. Rawley gave her a grateful glance. He did not need to be told that this was the quietest, coolest place in the basin. “We’ll make him as comfortable as we can, and I’ll send for Uncle Peter,” she said, as they stopped before the door. She called to the oldest of the children, a boy, and spoke to him rapidly in Indian. It seemed to Rawley that she was purposely emphasizing her bizarre relationship. A younger squaw--or so she looked to be--came from a shack, a fat, solemn-eyed baby riding her hip. Her hair was wound somehow on top of her head and held there insecurely with hairpins half falling out and cheap, glisteny side combs. A second glance convinced Rawley that she had white man’s blood in her veins, but her predominant traits were Indian, he judged; except that she lacked the Indian aloofness. “Mr. King, this is my Aunt Gladys--Mrs. Cramer,” Nevada announced distinctly. “Aunt Gladys, Queo shot Mr. King’s partner, who had discovered him lying in wait for Grandmother and me and was trying to protect us. Mr. King ran down to the trail to warn us, while his partner crept up behind Queo. He fired, after Queo had shot at us, but he thinks he missed altogether. At any rate Queo shot him. So Grandmother and I brought him on home. He saved our lives, and we must try to save his.” Aunt Gladys ducked her unkempt head, grinned awkwardly at Rawley, who lifted his hat to her--and thereby embarrassed her the more--and hitched the baby into a new position on her hip. “Whadda yuh think ol’ Jess’ll say?” she asked, in an undertone. “My, ain’t it awful, the way that Queo is acting up? Is there anything I can do? It won’t take but a few minutes to start a fire and heat water.” They had eased Johnny Buffalo from the burro’s back to the broad doorstep, which was shaded by the wide eaves of the porch. Now they were preparing to carry him in, feet first so that Nevada could lead the way. She turned her head and nodded approval of the suggestion. So Aunt Gladys, after lingering to watch the wounded man’s removal, departed to her own shack, shooing her progeny before her. Rawley had never had much experience with wounds, but he went to work as carefully as possible, getting the old man to bed and ready for ministrations more expert than his. In a few minutes Nevada came with a basin of water that smelled of antiseptic. Very matter-of-factly she helped him wash the wound.