"Good-morning, Miss Garcia," he said, bowing low, "won't you come in—now, Angy, do your duty or I'll beat you to death!" At this hasty aside Angevine Thorne did the honors, though with a bad grace.
"Marcelina, this is Mr. Dalhart—you better go home now, your mother's callin' you."
"I will not shake hands with a Texano!" pronounced Marcelina, stepping into the open and folding her arms disdainfully.
"Come on in then and hear the music," suggested Pecos, peaceably.
"Pah! The Tehannos sing like coyotes!" cried Marcelina, twisting up her lips in derision. "They are bad, bad men—mi madre say so. No, I go home—and when you are gone Babe will sing sweet moosic for me." She bowed, with a little smile for Babe, and glided through the doorway; and though he lingered about until Old Crit came in, Pecos Dalhart failed to catch another glimpse of this new queen of his heart.
It was dusk when Crittenden rode into camp, and at sight of Pecos Dalhart sitting by the fire the cowman's drawn face, pinched by hunger and hard riding, puckered up into a knot.
"What you doin' down here?" he demanded, when he had beckoned him to one side.
"Come down for my pay," responded the cowboy, briefly.
"Your pay," fumed Crittenden, "your pay! What do you need with money up at Carrizo? Say, have you been gittin' many?" he whispered, eagerly. "Have they been comin' in on you?"
"Sure thing. Branded forty-two cows, thirty calves, and sixteen twos. But how about it—do I draw?"