Mr. Boone started violently.
“Never mind, I’ll ask Rube Marmaduke or the Parson.”
A pitiful struggle racked Mr. Boone.
“You, you’re not fooling me, Din?” he pleaded.
390“Sure not. It’s your empress all right. It’s Miss Burt all right.”
“Then, Lawd help me, I’ll stay!–But you’d best be hustling and get to work.”
“Just a minute, Shanks, there’s the other one in the coach. She wants to go to Querétero. If she gives her word of honor–never mind, she knows honor from a man’s standpoint–if she gives her word that she brings nothing that will help ’em inside, then you can escort the coach into the town after things quiet down some. All right? Good. Then we’re off!”
Demijohn’s hoofs pelted dust balls with each impact. The Grays were ready. They surged behind. The sound of them was a swishing roar. In the apex of the blinding tempest, Driscoll sat his saddle as unmoved as an engineer in his cab. He looked ahead placidly. Empire and a prince had just triumphed. So he was going to readjust fatality. The smile touched his lips as it never had before, and hovered there in the midst of battle.