Jack shook his head. "No, I don't want anything of country life
just yet. I had all the splendid solitude my system needs, this last
summer. You like it; you're a kind of a lone rider anyway. You never
did mix well. You go back and honor Don Andres with your presence--and
he is honored. If the old devil only knew it! Maybe, later on--So you
like your new horse, huh? What you going to call him?"
Dade grinned a little. "Remember that picture in Shakespeare of 'White
Surry'? Or it was in Shakespeare till you tore it out to start a fire,
that wet night; remember? The arch in his neck, and all? I hadn't
gone a mile on him till I was calling him Surry; and say, Jack, he's a
wonder! Come out and take a look at him. Can't be more than four
years old, and gentle as a kitten. That poor devil knew how to train
a horse, even if he didn't have any sense about whisky. I'll bet money
couldn't have touched him if the man had been sober."
He stopped in the doorway and looked up and down the street with open
disgust. "Come on down to Picardo's, Jack; what the deuce is there
here to hold you? How a man that knows horses and the range, can
stand for this--" he waved a gloved hand at the squalid street--"is
something I can't understand. To me, it's like hell with the lid off.
What's holding you anyway? Another senorita?"
"I'm making more money here lately than I did in the mine." Jack
evaded smoothly.
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