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"No—don't smoke them," said Scotty. "I got a plug of chewing tobacco."

Apache shook his head. I took more stock of him now—this man who had come so appropriately to my aid and to the aid of the boss. He was a lithe, sunburnt fellow, wearing open a loose jacket, beneath which was a black shirt with pearl buttons. Round his neck was a great cream-coloured neckerchief that hung half down his back in a V shape. He wore heavy leathern "chaps" (chaparreras). On his head was a round, soft hat, broad of brim. He was a picturesque figure, one to look at with interest, though he bore himself without swagger and apparently made no attempt to attract attention.

He shook his head again.

"No use for an invalid," he said; "but Douglas is liable to want a smoke after the doc's been along." He produced a bag of tobacco and cigarette papers and squatted down cross-legged on the floor and began to roll. "I can't stay on too long," said he. "I have an appointment."

Scotty looked out on the sunny square (I learnt afterwards that the patch of sand was called a square) and said absently: "Far away?"