Hunter Mangan breathed again.
“You tell Mart you saw me do it!” she cried, circling back to him. “He won’t take my word in a thing like this. Oh, look! What’s coming?”
They had neared the road, and now coming along it they saw a little cavalcade that heretofore had been hidden by particularly tall greasewood.
In the lead moved a camp wagon, the cover made of wood, as is a gypsy’s migratory home. Six lean mules heaved in the collars to pull the chariot through the heavy sand. Driving them was a girl, with hair and eyes as black as night. Behind the camp wagon trailed other teams, hitched to other wagons and wheeled implements of the grade.
“Jeddo the Crow at last!” cried Mangan. “You’ve heard of him, Manzanita—you told me so. That’s Wing o’ the Crow driving six-up. If it were thirty-six it would make no difference to her. I must see them. Let’s ride over.”
“Oh, I want to meet Wing o’ the Crow! I’ve heard so much about her. Come on—beat you there ten lengths!”
CHAPTER VII
WING O’ THE CROW
HUNTER MANGAN was the senior member of the rather large firm of contractors from which the Jeddos had taken their subjob; so Hunt’s dignity would not permit a dash with Manzanita to the moving van. They rode forward, then, at a sedate walk, and when she saw them coming the young driver of the van pulled her six disconsolate mules to a stop.
Mangan lifted his broad-brimmed Stetson.
“Hello, there, Miss Jeddo!” he greeted her. “So you’re here at last. Pretty tough pull, isn’t it?”