172
Heart of the West
Curly walked in.
No one could have doubted. The old man and the young had the same sweep of hair, the same’ nose, chin, line of face, and prominent light-blue eyes.
Old “Kiowa” rose eagerly.
Curly looked about the room curiously. A puzzled expression came over his face. He pointed to the wall opposite.
“Where’s the tick-tock?” he asked, absent-mindedly.
“The clock,” cried old “Kiowa” loudly. “The eight-day clock used to stand there. Why———”
He turned to Ranse, but Ranse was not there.
Already a hundred yards away, Vaminos, the good flea-bitten dun, was bearing him eastward like a racer through dust and chaparral toward the Rancho de los Olmos.
