“Don’t try to hold him too tight. He’s probably got a tender mouth, judging from the way he fidgets.”
“Well, I suppose he has, but if I don’t hold him, he’s going to land me over somewhere in those foothills,” said Clara, faintly. “He’s got the most awful little rack I ever rode. Henry, do you suppose that fellow is Angel Gonzales?”
“Can’t say. He’s an ugly-looking ruffian whoever he is.”
“Hush, here he comes! He may understand English,” shivered Clara.
Angel grinned as he came back to them. “The señorita does not ride very well,” he said, mockingly. Clara did not reply.
“I suppose,” she reflected, with a gleam of humor, “that I ought to be grateful to be taken for a ‘señorita,’ but how can I be grateful for anything when I’m being rattled to pieces?”
Angel joined himself to them and they rode three abreast. He began to ask questions; questions which plainly were designed to inform him as to the financial standing of his guests or his prisoners whichever he chose to make them.
“He’s as persistent as a society reporter,” growled Hard, under his breath, as Angel relinquished his place to one of his men and fell back to ride with Cortes. “It’s a case of ransom, all right.”
“Shall we make a break for it?” whispered Clara. “If I let this thing go he’ll be over in the foothills before you can whistle.”
“No, they’d shoot. Better not risk it.”