“A girl born and brought up on a Mexican hidalgo’s estancia can ride in any saddle, senor,” she said, “more particularly to oblige such gallant rescuers.”
Jack felt himself coloring under his minstrel-like coating of soot as the girl spoke. The lad was somewhat susceptible, and the dark eyes of the senorita had made quite an impression on him.
“The pleasure is all ours, senorita,” he said, with a vague recollection of having seen that phrase in print somewhere.
The young Mexican girl sat her saddle as lightly as a bird on a bough, and the mount they had selected for her,—“borrowing” one of the outlaws’ animals for the purpose,—was a fine, springy-stepping creature, full of life and action.
“I guess our best plan is to head for Don Alverado’s estancia,” said Jack, as they crept as noiselessly as possible forward.
But, as a matter of fact, much caution was not necessary, for the Mexicans in the rancho, confident of having bottled up the Americans, were making so much noise that the light amble of the horses could not be heard above the roar. Their chief danger lay in being seen.
This, however, was not so probable as might be imagined. The corral was separated from the house by quite a small plantation of willows and cottonwoods, among whose branches the moonlight filtered thinly. Once they had rounded the corral they would be practically invisible.
The senorita informed them that it was ten miles from there to Santa Anita, in the suburbs of which her father lived. This, as we are aware, Jack already knew, and the corral once rounded their steeds were set at a lively gait.
“Are there any police in Santa Anita, senorita?” asked the professor, as they rode rapidly through the night, the well-fed horses, refreshed by their rest, pacing strongly forward. The professor was a great stickler for law and order.