The Mexican held up a tawny finger to still the scraping of tin against tin.
“One waggeen,” said he, “cross dthe Arroyo Hondo. Ah hear dthe wheel. Verree rockee place, dthe Hondo.”
“You’ve got good ears, Gregorio,” said Mustang Taylor. “I never heard nothin’ but the song-bird in the bush and the zephyr skallyhootin’ across the peaceful dell.”
In ten minutes Taylor remarked: “I see the dust of a wagon risin’ right above the fur end of the flat.”
“You have verree good eyes, señor,” said Gregorio, smiling.
Two miles away they saw a faint cloud dimming the green ripples of the mesquites. In twenty minutes they heard the clatter of the horses’ hoofs: in five minutes more the grey plugs dashed out of the thicket, whickering for oats and drawing the light wagon behind them like a toy.
From the jacals came a cry of: “El Amo! El Amo!” Four Mexican youths raced to unharness the greys. The cowpunchers gave a yell of greeting and delight.
Ranse Truesdell, driving, threw the reins to the ground and laughed.
“It’s under the wagon sheet, boys,” he said. “I know what you’re waiting for. If Sam lets it run out again we’ll use them yellow shoes of his for a target.
