“‘Las niñas de Durango
Commigo bailandas,
Al cielo saltandas,
En el fandango—en el fan-dang—o.’
“Ah! here comes Monsieur Saint Vrain. Écoutez! He never go to fandango. Sacré! how monsieur dance! like un maître de ballet. Mais he be de sangre—blood Français. Écoutez!
“‘Al cielo saltandas,
En el fandango—en el fan-dang—.’”
“Ha! Gode!”
“Monsieur?”
“Trot over to the cantina, and beg, borrow, buy, or steal, a bottle of the best Paso.”
“Sall I try steal ’im, Monsieur Saint Vrain?” inquired Gode, with a knowing grin.
“No, you old Canadian thief! Pay for it. There’s the money. Best Paso, do you hear?—cool and sparkling. Now, voya! Bon jour, my bold rider of buffalo bulls I still abed, I see.”
“My head aches as if it would split.”
“Ha, ha, ha! so does mine; but Gode’s gone for medicine. Hair of the dog good for the bite. Come, jump up!”