“Aw hell, Billy,” she mimicked in the way that delighted him, “where would I have been if you hadn't taken me out of the laundry? I couldn't take myself out. I was just a helpless girl. I'd have been there yet if it hadn't been for you. Mrs. Mortimer had five thousand dollars; but I had you.”
“A woman ain't got the chance to help herself that a man has,” he generalized. “I'll tell you what: It took the two of us. It's been team-work. We've run in span. If we'd a-run single, you might still be in the laundry; an', if I was lucky, I'd be still drivin' team by the day an' sportin' around to cheap dances.”
Saxon stood under the father of all madronos, watching Hazel and Hattie go out the gate, the full vegetable wagon behind them, when she saw Billy ride in, leading a sorrel mare from whose silken coat the sun flashed golden lights.
“Four-year-old, high-life, a handful, but no vicious tricks,” Billy chanted, as he stopped beside Saxon. “Skin like tissue paper, mouth like silk, but kill the toughest broncho ever foaled—look at them lungs an' nostrils. They call her Ramona—some Spanish name: sired by Morellita outa genuine Morgan stock.”
“And they will sell her?” Saxon gasped, standing with hands clasped in inarticulate delight.
“That's what I brought her to show you for.”
“But how much must they want for her?” was Saxon's next question, so impossible did it seem that such an amazement of horse-flesh could ever be hers.
“That ain't your business,” Billy answered brusquely. “The brickyard's payin' for her, not the vegetable ranch. She's yourn at the word. What d'ye say?”
“I'll tell you in a minute.”
Saxon was trying to mount, but the animal danced nervously away.