Following the Grass by Harry Sinclair Drago

the moment. In fact, they occupied Peter’s attention so fully that many minutes passed before he spoke of that storm-tossed night when Kit Dorr was killed.
    â€œJoseph,” he said solemnly, “I am afeerd that what I’m a-goin’ to tell you will lead to more killin’s—you bein’ here this-a-way. I see it in your eyes. I know what you’ve come back to do.
    â€œA-fore I tell you, I want to say somethin’ about Angel. You know, these Basques ain’t a bad people; they’re fightin’-men. In some ways they’re right like the mountain-people yore daddy came from. Yore daddy’s paw and me and the rest of us fit pretty hard for this country.
    â€œWhen the Basques came pilin’ in here we jumped ’em. We didn’t allow to let ’em have this land after what we’d been through. Lord only knows what we’d a-done with it all! But they stuck; and they’ve done pretty well.
    â€œLookin’ back, I see how foolish the whole fight was. But men go on like that—like Angel has done. He’s been the biggest fool of all. Now, things has changed—everythin’ but him! The country’s changed; the Basques has changed; and they’re goin’ to keep on changin’. They can’t do nuthin’ else; they ain’t ever going back to Spain.
    â€œAnd so I want to ask you—what’s Angel got for himself out of all the hatin’ he’s done? He’s an old man—I reckon he’s known his mistakes for a long time—but he’s afeered to admit it now; he’s too stiff-necked. I guess God’s just lettin’ him live till he’s willin’ to eat crow.
    â€œNo matter what you do to him, Joseph, I won’t hold it ag’in you. He’s got it a-comin’ to him; but boy, if you’d only promise—”
    â€œPlease! Do not exact a promise from me. This matter concerns only that man and me. No one must come between us. But his death would only defeat my purpose. Angel Irosabal must live. Tell me—who killed Kit Dorr?”
    The suddenness of the question made Peter recoil. It grew very still in the little dug-out. Both man and boy seemed to be caught up and held motionless in a tensely charged way. Waiting—one to hear, and the other to voice—a brief syllable or two; and both fully conscious that the course of their lives might well be changed thereby.
    Joseph’s eyes never left the old man’s. Seconds dragged by before Peter’s lips moved. No sound escaped them, however, and when he did speak his voice was dry, unnatural.
    â€œIt—it—was—Andres.”
    â€œAndres—” It was a whisper.
    For a seemingly endless time, the boy remained motionless, his eyes closed. Slippy-foot stared at him anxiously. She whimpered softly as Joseph sat down.
    â€œAndres—my mother’s brother!” he repeated. He did not raise his voice, but the hatred and bitterness with which he spoke gave his words a dreadful sound.
    â€œIt was Andres,” Peter muttered, but his was not the air of one who enjoys his own tale. To escape the boy’s staring eyes, he spread his blankets upon the floor and made ready for sleep, but as he bent over, the expected question came from the boy:
    â€œHow do you know?”
    â€œJoseph,” Peter scolded, “don’t look at me that-a-way. You make me feel all clammy and cold as if death was stalkin’ around in here.”
    â€œOh, man, go on,” the boy insisted. “How do you know it was Andres?”
    The old man pulled off his boots and sat down upon his blankets before he spoke.
    â€œI heard him say so,” he began. “When I got into that pocket, I crawled way in below the ledge and rolled up and tried to go to sleep. I was on foot and thankin’ my stars I didn’t have no animal to look after that night, when I caught sound of some one comin’ up the hogback.