“I will, indeed, if I may. Thank you.”
His horse was one of the rather small, sturdy, savannah ranch horses, bred in the uplands from the descendants of the conquerors’ mares by the stallions imported from England. He was dark, wise and full of go.
“Will he buck?” Hi asked.
“If you meet a tiger.”
“If a pig, he kick; so you know,” the girl said.
“Right. Thanks. Good-bye.”
“Con Dios.”
The horse was as eager to be gone as Hi to go. He sailed sideways down the avenue. Just as he turned into the thicket, Hi looked back to wave to his friends; they waved back to him. In two seconds more they were out of sight; he was riding through forest that was all dropping dew and trailing mist.
“I am really off at last,” he thought. “Twenty-four hours late in starting and twice as far from Anselmo as I was.”
The mist strayed itself out into clearness and the tops of the trees began to glitter as the sun rose higher. Little birds came flying just in front of him, as though to show their speed. Their cries, as they flew, sounded as though each bird were calling to “go it.” “I’ll go it fast enough,” he said.