“My mother, and the little tad——”
“I'm taking care of them. They're stopping with me.”
Here?
“You won't see 'em; by the Lord, you won't. You'll get away. Where's that back cinch strap, BILLY? God damn it, are you going to let him be shot before he can get away? Now, Dyke, up you go. She'll kill herself running before they can catch you.”
“God bless you, Annixter. Where's the little tad? Is she well, Annixter, and the mother? Tell them——”
“Yes, yes, yes. All clear, Pres? Let her have her own gait, Dyke. You're on the best horse in the county now. Let go her head, Billy. Now, Dyke,—shake hands? You bet I will. That's all right. Yes, God bless you. Let her go. You're OFF.”
Answering the goad of the spur, and already quivering with the excitement of the men who surrounded her, the buckskin cleared the stable-corral in two leaps; then, gathering her legs under her, her head low, her neck stretched out, swung into the road from out the driveway disappearing in a blur of dust.
With the agility of a monkey, young Vacca swung himself into the framework of the artesian well, clambering aloft to its very top. He swept the country with a glance.
“Well?” demanded Annixter from the ground. The others cocked their heads to listen.
“I see him; I see him!” shouted Vacca. “He's going like the devil. He's headed for Guadalajara.”