Chapter 14: The Fire Maker
Making fire had been a problem. Smoke hadn't been. Everything was wet: the pile
of grama grass, mesquite and sage. Nevertheless, Green got one going during a
lull in the rain. Now he stood back and watched as a thick, white funnel twisted
and writhed up into the sky, bending over like a bow as the wind caught it
higher up.
He didn't know how to send signals. It was an art he didn't have time to learn,
but he figured the Apache would investigate any smoke signal rising in their
territory.
He heaped more wet grass onto the burning pile until he could see no flame. It
would smoke for several hours like that, and that would be more than enough time
for the Indians to see it. They'd probably already seen it.
He made his way back down to the overhang. The Indian was still lying on his
back just as he had left him. When he heard Green, he opened his eyes.
Green knelt down beside him and checked the wound, putting more jelly on the
cactus pad. He rolled a couple of smokes, lit them and handed one to the boy. He
placed the bag of tobacco and papers with a tin of matches next to him.
"Mas tarde, amigo."
Bear Claw nodded.
With nothing left to say, Green made he way out from underneath the overhang,
mounted his pinto, and cautiously descended to the stage road and headed toward
Red Rock at a steady canter.
