The boys sang, Frank starting it. There were some musical voices in the party, and they formed a decidedly jolly “glee club.” The songs of Yale were popular with them, and they awoke the echoes with “Here to Good Old Yale,” “Bingo,” “Solomon Levi,” and so forth.
At two or three points the canyon widened enough to permit a few acres of river bottom, and there several Mexican families lived, managing to keep soul and body together in some mysterious manner that defies a Northern understanding.
About the driver’s waist was a cartridge belt that bore two Colt revolvers of .44 caliber, and the boy had a significant way of fingering those guns occasionally that made Miss Abigail very nervous.
“If he tries to murder the whole of us——Well, let him try it!” she said, with a significant hardening of the jaws. “He’ll get all he’s bargained for.”
“Dot vos right,” nodded Hans. “He don’d done dot murderin’ mitout troubles.”
Miss Abigail was silent. Encouraged by this, the Dutch boy added:
“Shust you trust myself to you und you vos all right. I vill peen your brotector all der times.”
“You!” sniffed Miss Abigail. “Why, if you saw your own shadow you’d think an elephant was after you and run away.”
Ephraim snickered, and Hans looked disgusted.
The scenery proved very monotonous, and the party subsided into silence after a time.