He smiled, thinking of how he must look. It’s too bad I don’t have a mirror, he told himself. I probably look like a young Mr. Grimes. The idea strangely pleased him, and his smile widened as he carried his old clothes across the stream and buried them beneath a rotten log. He felt as though he was burying his past life.

He came back across the stream just as Mr. Grimes returned. He stopped the sorrel but did not dismount.

“Well, well, Mr. Tucket. I near mistook you for Jim Bridger. Probably would have if you didn’t have brown hair. Jim is turning gray at the temples.”

Francis felt a blush sweep over his face.

Mr. Grimes didn’t miss it. “I was going to ask you to shoot an antelope for me—but now I don’t know. A red face stands out just a mite, and you might scare them away. Howsomever, if you can pull yourself up on the mare one more time, maybe I can offer you a little sport.”

Francis wheeled away, glad for the chance to do something. Mr. Grimes had the darndest way of noticing everything. Francis untied the mare, slipped her war bridle up tight, and with his rifle in one hand, jumped on her back. He took the reins in his other hand.

Mr. Grimes loped out of camp and Francis jabbed his heels into the mare’s ribs to catch up. They rode side by side for twenty minutes, and then pulled up sharply on the edge of what Francis first took to be a cliff. Below them lay an immense level plain, as green as a hay field and twice as flat. Far out on the opposite side of the mesa Francis could see fifteen or twenty brown specks.

“Antelope, Mr. Tucket—or dinner, depending on how you look at it. I’d like you to shoot me a nice young buck—”

“From here?” Francis interrupted. “Why, they’re at least two miles away.”

“No-ah, Mr. Tucket. Not from here. You leave your mare up here with me and you climb down there. Then you hide and”—he dug in his saddlebags and produced a piece of white cloth—“and wave this around for a while. It’s an old Indian trick. They get curious about what you’re wiggling and come to see what it is. Then you shoot one—and make sure he’s a young buck. The old ones get old by running a lot—and that makes them tough.”

Francis took the rag, slid off his horse, and looked down the cliff. Actually it was a steep slide, and could be descended fairly easily.

“Why are you sending me down?” he asked. “I’ve never shot an antelope …”

“That’s just why, Mr. Tucket. That’s just why. Now you’d better get going—we’ve only got about seven hours of daylight left.” His voice was sarcastic.