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Its adobe-lined streets basked in the white glare of an Arizona spring at midday. One or two Papago Indians, with their pottery wares, squatted in the shade of the buildings, but otherwise the plaza was deserted. Not even a moving dog or a lounging peon lent life to the drowsy square. Silence profound and peace eternal seemed to brood over the land.
Dick looked out of the window at the white adobe-lined streets resting in a placid coma of sun-beat. "Don't you reckon Santa Fé can stand a little stirring up, Miss Underwood?" "Goodness, yes. We all get to be three hundred years old if we live in this atmosphere long enough." The man's gaze shifted. "You'd have to live here a right long time, I reckon."
In his own mind he had no doubt that some of their countrymen were selling either Pablo or Sebastian for the reward, but it was better to be safe than to be sorry. The old crone led them by side streets into the narrow adobe-lined roads of old-town. They passed through winding alleys and between buildings crumbling with age. Always Manuel watched, his right hand in his coat pocket.
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