"I won a lot last night. Whee-ee! Say, you played in
some luck yourself, old man, when you bought that outfit. That saddle
and bridle's worth all you paid for the whole thing. White Surry, eh?
He has got a neck--and, Lord, look at those legs!"
"Climb on and try him out once!" invited Dade guilefully. If he could
stir the horseman's blood in Jack's veins, he thought he might get him
away from town.
"Haven't time right now, Dade. I promised to meet a friend--"
Dade shrugged his shoulders and painstakingly smoothed the hair tassel
which dangled from the browband. The Spaniard had owned a fine eye for
effect when he chose jet black trappings for Surry, who was white to
his shining hoofs.
"All right; I'll put him in somewhere till after dinner. Then I'm
going to pull out again. I can't stand this hell-pot of a town--not
after the Picardo hacienda."
"I wonder," grinned Jack slyly, "if there isn't a senorita at Palo
Alto?"
He got no answer of any sort. Dade was combing with his fingers the
crinkled mane which fell to the very chest of his new horse, and if he
heard he made no betraying sign.
CHAPTER II
THE VIGILANTES
Bill Wilson came to the door of his saloon and stood with his hands
on his hips, looking out upon the heterogeneous assembly of virile
manhood that formed the bulk of San Francisco's population a year or
two after the first gold cry had been raised.
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