Clouds were rolling up along the Sierra Pelona, like big piles of wet cotton; and a cold wind had picked up, raising swirls of dust along the road where they now rode slowly alongside Amargosa Creek.
At the wooden bridge two large ravens rose suddenly, squawking and flapping their wide wings and sailing up the valley as the small procession clattered over the stream. On the other side a small group was watching silently. Cal looked them over as he rode past. It looked like maybe two sheep herders and three Mexican or Indian vaqueros, sombreros pulled down and ponchos flapping in the wind. None of them looked like a threat, but no one spoke or smiled. They had that familiar We don’t know nothing look on their faces.