They was a man hangin' to it. An Indian, mother-naked, nailed, nigh dead. I was minded to put a bullet through his head an' end the poor devil's misery, but I heard the shrieking of the reeds again an' I vamosed. They choose 'em by lot an' they don't allus die, they say. But, sometimes, it's a woman. An' their scourges is aloe fibre, I've seen 'em. Another trick is for them to lie on beds of cactus. Now I'm puttin' it to ye, what kind of use is it for folks like them to be made pets of by the gov'mint? An', if they do that to themselves, what 'ud they do to a white man? I thought along that line while I was movin' off from that cross an' I'll promise you I hurried some. Like to wore off my burro's hoofs gettin' cl'ar of that neighbourhood."
Stone shivered involuntarily in the raw chill of the air as a little breeze came whispering down the valley.
"Better you turn in for all the sleep you can git," suggested Harvey. "We'll all need our nerve termorrer, likely, an' they's nothin' to fix up yore nerves like sleep an' a full stummick."
