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Updated: May 6, 2025
Still leaning a brown chin on a nearly black hand, and stirring up his spider with the forked stick he held in the other paw, the boy simply tilted his head towards the dark opening under the farther end of the shed, an aperture that seemed to lead to nothing but blackness beyond. "What's he doing?" "No sa-a-abe," drawled the boy, never lifting his handsome eyes from the joys before him.
"Why hasn't he harnessed up?" A shrug of the shoulders was the only reply. "Hey?" "No sa-a-abe," slowly as before. "What's your name?" "José." "Well, here, José, you go and tell him I want him."
Old Miguel, the half-breed, who did odd jobs about the well and the corral, expressed profound ignorance both of the situation and Feeny's English. The Mexican boy had but one answer to all queries: "No sa-a-abe." Other occupants there were, but these even Feeny's sense of duty could not prompt him to disturb.
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