Fairly in the midst of them, quite as gaudy to look upon and every whit
as reckless in their horsemanship, rode Dade and Jack. If their hearts
were not as light, their faces gave no sign; and their tongues flung
back the good-humored jibes of their fellows in Spanish as fluent as any
they heard.
When they left the highway and rode straight down the valley through the
mustard that swept the chests of their plunging horses with dainty
yellow and green, the two fell behind and slowing their horses to an
easy lope, separated themselves from their exuberant fellows.
"I wish you were going along," Dade observed tritely. "If Jose Pacheco
changes his mind and stays at home, I'll send you word and you can come
on, if you want to."
"Thanks." Jack's tone, however, did not sound thankful. "If I wanted to
go, do you think I'd hang back because he's going?"
"No, I don't. I think the prospect of a fine, large row would be a
temptation; and I must say I'm kinda surprised that you've been able to
resist it. Still, I realize there's compensations."
"Sure, there are. I never denied it, did I?"
"Never. I reckon you've sent by Bill Wilson for a trumpet to proclaim--"
"Oh, shut up. I think," Jack decided suddenly and without any visible
cause, "I'll turn off here and ride around by Jerry Simpson's. Adios,
old man, and heaps of good luck to you." He swung abruptly off to the
right and galloped away, looking back over his shoulder when he had
ridden a hundred paces, to wave his sombrero and shout a last word or
two of farewell.
Pages:
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168