“So, Sonora, you’ve got a newspaper,” Handsome was saying.
“Yes, but the infernal thing’s two months old,” returned the other disgustedly.
Handsome laughed, and wheeling round was just in time to see the door flung open and a young fellow advance towards Ashby.
The Pony Express was a young man of not more than twenty years of age. He was smooth-faced and unshaven and, needless to say, was light of build, for these riders were selected for their weight as well as for their nerve. He wore a sombrero, a buckskin hunting-shirt, tight trousers tucked into high boots with spurs, all of which were weather-beaten and faded by wind, rain, dust and alkali. A pair of Colt revolvers could be seen in his holsters, and he carried in his hands, which were covered with heavy gloves, a mail pouch—it being the company’s orders not to let his muchilo of heavy leather out of his hands for a second.
“You drop mail at the greaser settlement?” inquired Ashby in his peremptory and incisive manner.
“Yes, sir,” quickly responded the young man; and then volunteered: “It’s a tough place.”
Ashby scrutinised the newcomer closely before going on with:
“Know a girl there named Nina Micheltoreña?”
But before The Pony Express had time to reply the Girl interposed scornfully:
“Nina Micheltoreña? Why, they all know ’er! She’s one o’ them Cachuca girls with droopy, Spanish eyes! Oh, ask the boys about ’er!” And with that she started to leave the room, stopping on her way to clap both Trinidad and Sonora playfully on the back. “Yes, ask the boys about ’er, they’ll tell you!” And so saying she fled from the room, followed by the men she was poking fun at.