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Ramon mounted the pack horse bareback. “Where do you live, friend?” Ramon asked. “Tusas,” the Mexican replied, naming a little village ten miles down the canyon. They exchanged no other words until they came within sight of the group of adobe houses. Then Ramon stopped his horse and turned to the man.
As he rode up the Tusas Canyon at twilight, a sense of insecurity came over him, amounting almost to fear. He had had a somewhat similar feeling once when a panther had trailed him on a winter night. Now, as then, he had no idea what it was that menaced him; he was simply warned by that sixth sense which belongs to all wild things, and to men in whom there remains something of the feral.
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