I go along, bimeby I pass red car in sand.

Ramon Chavez, he don't go in dat car.

I don't know them feller.
Ramon Chavez he go 'cross railroad in big black car." "Then who was it we've been trailing out this way ?" Luck asked the question in Spanish and glanced from one brown face to the other.
The older Indian shifted his moccasined feet in the sand and looked away.

"Indians," he said in Mexican.

"You follow, Indians think you maybe take them away--put 'm in jail.