“The riata! The riata! How glad I am he took it, and he had nothing else except his own nimble feet!” cried Carlota, in pride at the prowess of her twin.
“Yes, I know, I know. He wasn’t like some, so he wasn’t, more boast nor boost,” rejoined Dennis, casting a disdainful glance upon Jack, who was booted and spurred in a manner only second to his own, though the lad’s regalia was extremely “second-hand” and had mostly been acquired by methods which would have greatly displeased his parents.
At this, Carlota turned her gaze from her brother to Jack, with that surprised expression that always disconcerted him, and, for the first time, fully observed his attire. Then she demanded:
“Why, boy, what are you going to fight? A bowie knife—a pair of rusty pistols—a gun! How an Apache, or a wild cat, would run if he saw you! But look! Carlos has caught the broncho—he surely has!”
This was so, and attention now centered upon the approaching victor of the race.
“A lad is swifter than a horse!” cried the sister, waving her sombrero in congratulation to her brother.
They speedily met and, leaping down from the now subdued animal, Carlos handed the bridle to Dennis, saying:
“There, good friend! That saves your walking.”
“Thanks to ye, me boy! Sure, you’re the slick smartest one ever lived. You’re quite fit to be brother to your sister, so ye be, an’ that’s more’n I could say for aught other young body I know,” with another meaning glance in Jack’s direction.
But, just then, that youth had no attention for the trackman. He was curiously examining Carlos’s riata. He had always aspired to be a cowboy, and believed that a first step toward this exalted state would be by the use of a lasso. So he asked: