"Good-afternoon, Miss Meeker," he said, wondering how much she had seen and heard.
"I'll not spoil yore fun," she icily replied, riding away.
He stared after her until she had ridden around a chaparral and out of his sight, and he slammed his sombrero on the ground and swore.
"D—n th' luck!"
Then he spurred to overtake her and when he saw her again she was talking to Antonio, who was all smiles.
"Coffee-colored galoot!" Hopalong muttered, savagely. "I'll spill him all over hisself some day, th' squint-eyed mud-image! Th' devil with him, if he don't like my company he can amble."
He swept up to them, his hair stirred by the breeze and his right hand resting on the butt of his Colt. Antonio was talking when he arrived, but he had no regard for "Greasers" and interrupted without loss of time.
"Miss Meeker," he began, backing his horse so he could watch the Mexican. "I shore hope you ain't mad. Are you?"
She looked at him coldly, and her companion muttered something in Spanish; and found Hopalong's eyes looking into his soul, which hushed the Spanish.
"You talk United States if you've got anything to say, which you ain't," Hopalong commanded and then turned to the woman. "I'm shore sorry you heard me. I didn't think you was anywhere around."