But who's goin' to
give up his hosses without a fight? Half the time when Beldin's
stock is out of the alfalfa it's grazin' over the line. He thinks
he's careful about them hosses, but he ain't."
"Look a-here, Laddy; you cain't believe all you hear," replied
Jim, seriously. "I reckon we mightn't have any trouble."
"Back up, Jim. Shore you're standin' on your bridle. I ain't goin'
much on reports. Remember that American we met in Casita,
the prospector who'd just gotten out of Sonora? He had some
story, he had. Swore he'd killed seventeen Greasers breakin'
through the rebel line round the mine where he an' other Americans
were corralled. The next day when I met him again, he was drunk,
an' then he told me he'd shot thirty Greasers. The chances are
he did kill some. But reports are exaggerated. There are miners
fightin' for life down in Sonora, you can gamble on that. An' the
truth is bad enough. Take Rojas's harryin' of the Senorita, for
instance. Can you beat that? Shore, Jim, there's more doin' than
the raidin' of a few hosses. An' Forlorn River is goin' to get hers!"
Another dawn found Gale so much recovered that he arose and looked
after himself, not, however, without considerable difficulty and
rather disheartening twinges of pain.
Some time during the morning he heard the girls in the patio and
called to ask if he might join them. He received one response,
a mellow, "Si, Senor." It was not as much as he wanted,
but considering that it was enough, he went out.
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