Free Following the Grass by Harry Sinclair Drago Page B

our people were abused when they came here, it was partly their fault. But you are like your father, Andres.”
    â€œYes, and you would do well to think as I do. I hate these gringos, these criollos! Why do they give themselves the airs they do? Haven’t we proved ourselves good citizens?”
    â€œWe’ve proved ourselves able to do everything but forgive and forget an injustice!” Felipe answered boldly. “It was well enough to remember, when we were only a few, but we are many now; and we’re here for all time. There’s no more talk of Spain. I’m a man—”
    â€œA man?” Andres cried with a fine sarcasm. “You’re nothing but a boy, with your face as soft as a girl’s! You’ll do what you are told to do. Who cares what you think? Don’t let me hear any more of your foolish mouthings. Do you understand?”
    Andres glared menacingly at the boy, his neck muscles bulging with anger. Felipe knew that Andres was a bully, and previous experiences had taught him the wisdom of walking wide of the man’s powerful hands, so he contented himself in the present instance by turning away with a scornful grunt.
    Felipe’s gesture stung Andres, and he continued to watch the boy as they went along, waiting expectantly for him to voice the hot words that trembled on his tongue. Felipe, however, was not to be goaded into battle with Andres, and it was not until they reached the spring that he spoke agam.
    â€œWell, it’s dry!” he exclaimed angrily.
    Andres scowled as he surveyed the spring. Both of them cursed their luck in their own way.
    â€œDon’t stand there doing nothing,” Andres snapped. “Unpack the burro, and get me a shovel. The ground is still wet. I’ll dig a hole. We’ll have water in an hour.”
    Felipe did as he was bidden to do and later, with the help of the dogs, he got the flock to bed down. On returning to the spring, he found Andres staring moodily at the hole which he had dug. An inch of water had seeped into it already, but it was heavy with silt and covered with an oily scum. Unpalatable as it looked, it was water, and the sight of it maddened the boy. He threw himself to the ground to drink, but Andres shouldered him away.
    â€œYou can’t drink it yet,” he grumbled. “It will settle in a short while.”
    Felipe’s eyes flashed, and he longed to strike Andres, but he dropped back to wait in sullen silence for the. water to clear.
    Twilight fell as they waited, but neither offered to build a fire. Some minutes later the dogs barked and, on getting to his knees, Felipe made out the figure of a man approaching the spring. In his hand the man held a lead rope, and behind him shuffled a decrepit pack horse.
    Andres caught the query in Felipe’s eyes, and he got up and stared at the figure approaching from the north.
    â€œOld man Organ,” he muttered irritably on recognizing him. Without bothering to conceal his annoyance at being discovered camped beside the muddy spring when fresh water was only an hour’s journey away, he sank back again to his former position.
    Peter Organ was a very old man. He had tramped the Nevada hills years before the first Basque had set foot in the state. He was one of the few left of those who had seen the first Basques trek into the country of the Humboldt. From Angel down, they had no fault to find with old Peter.
    But then, he was of the kind who find virtue in a Digger Indian with quite the same ease that most men find it in prince or bishop. Likewise, his ability at recognizing men’s faults had become proverbial, and backed up with a sharp tongue it had given him a certain prominence which, otherwise, would have been denied to him.
    Hair had long since ceased to adorn his bald pate, and even his stubby white beard seemed to have been nipped by the many adventurous years he had lived. His eyes, however, were keenly alive, and they