But there was a man named Fink who kept a store at the Crossing--a man
of many nationalities, tongues, interests, and ways of thinking.
"No use to ask them Mexicans," he said to Sandridge. "They're afraid
to tell. This /hombre/ they call the Kid--Goodall is his name, ain't
it?--he's been in my store once or twice. I have an idea you might run
across him at--but I guess I don't keer to say, myself. I'm two
seconds later in pulling a gun than I used to be, and the difference
is worth thinking about. But this Kid's got a half-Mexican girl at the
Crossing that he comes to see. She lives in that /jacal/ a hundred
yards down the arroyo at the edge of the pear. Maybe she--no, I don't
suppose she would, but that /jacal/ would be a good place to watch,
anyway."
Sandridge rode down to the /jacal/ of Perez. The sun was low, and the
broad shade of the great pear thicket already covered the grass-
thatched hut. The goats were enclosed for the night in a brush corral
near by. A few kids walked the top of it, nibbling the chaparral
leaves.
Pages:
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253