I was not surprised to hear him
nicknamed Sacatone Bill.
"Just ask him how he got that game foot," suggested Johnny Stone
to me in an undertone, so, of course, I did not.
Later someone told me that the lameness resulted from his refusal
of an urgent invitation to return across a river. Mr. Sacatone
Bill happened not to be riding his own horse at the time.
The Cattleman dropped down beside me a moment later.
"I wish," said he in a low voice, "we could get that fellow
talking. He is a queer one. Pretty well educated apparently.
Claims to be writing a book of memoirs. Sometimes he will open
up in good shape, and sometimes he will not. It does no good to
ask him direct, and he is as shy as an old crow when you try to
lead him up to a subject. We must just lie low and trust to
Providence."
A man was playing on the mouth organ. He played excellently
well, with all sorts of variations and frills. We smoked in
silence. The deep rumble of the cattle filled the air with its
diapason. Always the shrill coyotes raved out in the mesquite.
Sacatone Bill had finished his meal, and had gone to sit by Jed
Parker, his old friend. They talked together low-voiced. The
evening grew, and the eastern sky silvered over the mountains in
anticipation of the moon.
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