He was evidently a man of some
rank. I suspected that he ruined his life and became an adventurer. His
health was shattered when I brought him here, but he got well after a
year or so. He was a splendid, handsome fellow. He spoke very seldom
and I don't remember ever seeing him smile. His favorite walk was the
river trail. I came upon him there one day, and found him dying. He
asked me to have a care of Mescal. And he died muttering a Spanish word,
a woman's name, I think."
"I'll cherish Mescal the more," said Hare.
"Cherish her, yes. My Bible will this day give her a name. We know she
has the blood of a great chief. Beautiful she is and good. I raised her
for the Mormon Church, but God disposes after all, and I--"
A shrill screeching sound split the warm stillness, the long-drawn-out
bray of a burro.
"Jack, look down the lane. If it isn't Noddle!"
Under the shady line of the red wall a little gray burro came trotting
leisurely along with one long brown ear standing straight up, the other
hanging down over his nose.
"By George! it's Noddle!" exclaimed Hare. "He's climbed out of the
canyon.
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