Then, using only his hands--sometimes his fingers only--he began to talk; to tell the old Navajo that he and eight other white men were sheriffs and that they were chasing four white men (since he had no sign that meant Mexican) who had stolen money; that they had come from Albuquerque--and there he began to draw in the sand between them a crude but thoroughly understandable sketch of the trail they had taken and the camps they had made, and the distance they believed the four thieves had travelled ahead of them.
He marked the camp where their horses had been stolen from them and told how long they had waited there until the horses of their own accord returned to camp; thirteen horses, he explained to the old Navajo.

He drew a rough square to indicate the square butte, sketched the fork of the trail there and told how four men had turned to the north on a false trail, while he and four others had gone around the southern end of the hill.

He calmly made plain that at the end of both false trails a trap had been laid, that Indians had fired upon white men and for no just cause.

Why was this go?
Why had Indians surrounded them back there in the grove and tried to kill them?
Why were Indians shooting at them from the ledge of rocks that circled this little basin?
They had no quarrel with the Navajos.

They were chasing thieves, to take them to jail.
Folded swelteringly in his red blanket the old Indian sat humped forward a little, smoking slowly his cigarette and studying the sketch Luck had drawn for him.