He rode with the robe hiked halfway up, revealing his knee-high moccasins. The afternoon sun was blistering, the air was an oven. Fargo should be used to it but he sweated profusely and his throat became so dry, he resisted an urge to use the waterskin the colonel had provided. He was grateful when twilight fell. An arroyo offered a spot to camp for the night. They were out of the wind and their fire wouldn’t be seen by unfriendly eyes. Fargo gathered brush and kindled fledgling flames while Cuchillo Colorado sat and watched. He filled the coffeepot and put coffee on a flat rock to brew. In a bundle of rabbit fur he had enough pemmican for two and offered a piece to his companion. Cuchillo Colorado accepted it with a grunt. He bit and chewed and said out of the blue, “You not hate me because I am Shis-Inday.” It was a statement, not a question.
