All the human characters in the story are fictitious, but most of the coyotes and hounds are not and this is no coincidence. - Harold Keith

A glad look came into the old man's eyes. "Throw yore gear right thar in thet south bedroom," he invited, pointing to its door. "It's all yores," he added. "Purty cool in thar. You can look out the west window into the pony pasture an' see yore hoss. Then come on in the dinin' room. Tonia's gittin' supper ready."

The rain overtook them as they began the descent from the north Mexican highlands onto the plain of eastern Chihuahua. Slowly it crept westward, pelting the shoulders, the backs, and sombreros of the travelers. Then it stopped. But its coming had wrought a miracle. Flowers spangled the parched mesas with blossoms of pink, cream, and gold. The sodden soil smelled sweet in the icy air of late afternoon. Even the sinister thornbrush looked friendly in its jacket of small green leaves with a scarlet blossom for a boutonniere. The desert had flared into color and life at the lash of the rain.

And he had to face something else, too, his own paralyzing fear of being hit in the scrimmages. The whole squad had seen it. There was no way a boy could hide cowardice in football.