“One, I think.”
“Uh-huh. I guess Halfaman’s been to that ragtown then—what d’ye call it? Stlingbloke? Huh—they’re all stlingbloke, I’ll say.”
Here a tall, ruggedly handsome man, with coal-black hair and mustache, and with one shirt sleeve pinned up, rode past on a mule, with Mangan at his side. They galloped ahead, Mangan leading Manzanita’s mare.
“Guess we’re purty near there,” observed Wing o’ the Crow. “I’ll sleep to-night! Don’t suppose you know what Mangan-Hatton ’re payin’ th’ snap?”
“I haven’t the remotest idea,” replied Manzanita.
Wing o’ the Crow looked at her curiously. “Funny!” she said. “That outfit’s been here a month, I hear, an’ you don’t know nothin’ about ’em but a few stiffs’ names.”
Manzanita looked uncomfortable, and felt as she looked. There was a strange tone of accusation in the large black eyes of the girl of the van. It caused the girl of the desert to feel inferior—insignificant.
“A bunch o’ dance-hall girls at this Stlingbloke, I guess—huh?”
“Yes,” replied Manzanita.
“Did you see a girl with very light hair—bleached, I guess?” questioned the gypo queen.