...Well, here are the corrals and the fields. Gale, take a
look at that bunch of horses!"
Belding's last remark was made as he led his companions out of
shady gardens into the open. Gale saw an adobe shed and a huge
pen fenced by strangely twisted and contorted branches or trunks
of mesquite, and, beyond these, wide, flat fields, green--a dark,
rich green--and dotted with beautiful horses. There were whites
and blacks, and bays and grays. In his admiration Gale searched
his memory to see if he could remember the like of these magnificent
animals, and had to admit that the only ones he could compare with
them were the Arabian steeds.
"Every ranch loves his horses," said Belding. "When I was in the
Panhandle I had some fine stock. But these are Mexican. They
came from Durango, where they were bred. Mexican horses are
the finest in the world, bar none."
"Shore I reckon I savvy why you don't sleep nights," drawled Laddy.
"I see a Greaser out there--no, it's an Indian."
"That's my Papago herdsman. I keep watch over the horses now
day and night. Lord, how I'd hate to have Rojas or Salazar--any
of those bandit rebels--find my horses!...Gale, can you ride?"
Dick modestly replied that he could, according to the Eastern
idea of horsemanship.
"You don't need to be half horse to ride one of that bunch. But
over there in the other field I've iron-jawed broncos I wouldn't
want you to tackle--except to see the fun. I've an outlaw I'll
gamble even Laddy can't ride.
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