Blizzard was unusually full of spirit. The slow pace to which The Kid held him was hardly an outlet for his restless energy.
"Steady, boy," The Kid whispered. "We're savin' our strength—they'll be plenty of fast ridin' to do latah."
The Kid could not resist the temptation to break into song. His soft chant rose above the faint whisper of the desert wind:
"Oh, theah's jumpin' beans and six-guns south o' Rio,
And muy malo hombres by the dozen,
We're a-watchin' out fo' trouble south o' Rio,
And when it comes, some lead will be a-buzzin'."
He smiled up at the stars, and turned Blizzard's head to the eastward. Before them loomed the low, white adobe walls of Don Floristo's hacienda.
A dark-faced peon on guard outside, armed with a carbine, opened the door for him. Late as the hour was, lights were shining inside and he heard the welcoming sound of Don Floristo's voice as he passed through the entrance.
"Ah, come in, come in, amigo. I was afraid the señor was not coming. Como esta usted?"
"Buenas noches," returned The Kid, with easy politeness. "I trust yo' are in good health?"
The conversation after that was entirely in Spanish, as Kid Wolf spoke the language like a native. His Southern accent made the Mexican tongue all the more musical. He followed his host into a rather large, square room with a beautifully tiled floor. The don motioned The Kid to a chair.
"The cattle of which we—ah—spoke, señor," said the don, as he lighted a long brown cigarette. "They are on the way to Mariposa. Are probably there even now, amigo."