He paused again, and Marion began to realize the full degree of her provinciality and ignorance. She was from New York. What a pity!
“Well,” said the cowboy, as if resolved to do the best he could in the circumstances, “sometimes––maybe three or four times a year––it’s weird. It’s religious. The white peaks turn red as blood––that’s why they’re called Sangre de Cristo. It’s Spanish for Blood of Christ. It makes you feel queer-like”––He paused a moment thoughtfully, watching the golden horse as it stepped quietly, lightly, with head high, just ahead of them. “The red comes onto Sangre de Cristo, an’ Brinker sees it. He looks at the blood on the peaks, an’ then at the gold horse lyin’ there all torn an’ dirty, an’ this is what Brinker does, an’ maybe he couldn’t help it. He ups an’ cuts the ropes, an’ Sunnysides’s off to his waitin’ bunch, an’ they all go snortin’ down the valley.”
There was a touch of awe in the man’s voice, and Marion felt a little of it too. She looked toward the serrated barrier of mountains, in the very middle of which stood old Thunder under his pall of cloud. Beyond lay San Luis––Sangre de Cristo––and what romance! Would she ever––Her eyes rested for a moment on the black pile that now, as always, fascinated and yet disturbed her.
“And you?” she said at length, turning to the cowboy.
“There wasn’t no red sunset this time,” the man answered, with a grim smile. “But we ain’t slep’ since,” he added, with a return of weariness.
“You caught him?” she asked admiringly.
“Us three.”
“But what are you doing with him here?”
“He’s sold, if we c’n find the man’t offered a thousand for him a year ago.”