“Mister, do you know how to fly kites?”
One “Hashknife” Hartley, newcomer, sitting on the wooden sidewalk in front of the Lobo Wells Hotel, lazily turned his head and looked at little Larry Ayres, half hidden by a huge home-made kite, from which a rag and string tail dragged several feet behind. The boy’s face was very serious as he questioned the lean, lanky stranger, whose gray eyes were hidden beneath the wide brim of his sombrero. “I can’t git it started,” confessed the boy helplessly.
Hashknife’s lips parted in a wide, lazy grin.
“Pretty big kite for a small boy, don’tcha think, buddy?”
“I wanted her big. My name’s Larry, and I’ve got plenty of string.”
“Then yo’re all right—except for a start. Make it yourself?”
“Me and Minnie. Minnie’s Injun, and she don’t know beans about a k
