“May I ask, Mr Borlasse, what business you follow?”
“Well; when we’re engaged in regular business, it’s mostly horse-catchin’. We rope wild horses, mustangs, as they’re called; an’ sometimes them that ain’t jest so wild. We bring ’em into the settlements for sale. For which reason we pass by the name of mustangers. Between whiles, when business isn’t very brisk, we spend our time in some of the Texas towns—them what’s well in to’rds the Rio Grande, whar there’s a good sprinklin’ of Mexikins in the population. We’ve some rare times among the Mexikin girls, I kin assure you. You’ll take Jim Borlasse’s word for that, won’t you?”
“I have no cause to doubt it.”
“Well, I needn’t say more, need I? I know, Quantrell, you’re fond of a pretty face yourself, with sloe-black eyes in it. You’ll see them among the Mexikin saynoritas, to your heart’s content. Enough o’ ’em, maybe, to make you forget the pair as war late glancin’ at you out of the hotel gallery.”
“Glancing at me?” exclaims Darke, showing surprise, not unmixed with alarm.
“Glancing at ye; strait custrut; them same eyes as inspired ye to do that little bit of shootin’, wi’ Charley Clancy for a target.”
“You think she saw me?” asks the assassin, with increasing uneasiness.
“Think! I’m sure of it. More than saw—she recognised ye. I could tell that from the way she shot back into the shadow. Did ye not notice it yourself?”
“No,” rejoins Darke, the monosyllable issuing mechanically from his lips, while a shiver runs through his frame.
His questioner, observing these signs, continues,—