"Moon's up," said Jackson. "That 'll help some. Better leave the road an' scout along the foot of the hills. Don't want to override the place."
The northern side of the range was more fertile than Chico Mesa. Cactus grew, and soapweed, but gramma grass prevailed. The mountains rose steeply, their slopes bristling with forests of pine and cedar up to the gaunt crags above timberline, silvered by the lifting moon that rose at their backs, full and golden. Once they had to ford Ghost Creek, running in a loop from its mountain sources, fetlocks deep and cold, its ripples sparkling as they splashed through.
"Ahead of 'em all right," said Jackson, turning in his saddle and seeing nothing against the moon though he rode with his head twisted on his shoulder for some minutes, trusting to the roan to pick his way.
"It's just as well, Red. We've got to make ourselves acquainted and get their confidence. We don't want to start a rumpus, either, if we can avoid it by a little diplomacy. No sense in scaring them to death and making them leave the place."
"I'm carryin' my diplomacy on my hip," said Jackson. "There's on'y one sure way to argy with Hollister and his bullies when they're primed with Vasquez' whisky."
"You forget the women. They may not be incapable of handling the situation, with us to back them."
"Play a lullaby to Hollister an' put him to sleep, I suppose," said Jackson with grim sarcasm. "'Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast.' I read
