Question

Under the thatched roof porch that ran the length of the agency office, Jeremiah slouched in a canvas-backed chair with his boots propped against one of the support posts. The Sun was mercilessly bright as he gazed out on the adobe buildings that rimmed the vacant compound. The Sun's glare and the lack of a single shade tree or any attractive feature all added to his sense of being abandoned. There was not a soul in sight. All the Apaches that were his charges had received their two-week supply of beef and flour and had ridden their ponies off to their portable shelters, which they called wickiups, to feast.