“They’re the biggest hounds unhung,” growled Roaring Bull, bringing one hand down on the board by way of emphasis, while with the other he held out his plate for another steak.
“You’re too hard on some of them, father,” said Mary, in a voice the softness of which seemed appropriate to the beauty of her face.
“Always the way wi’ you wenches,” observed the father. “Some o’ the villains are good-lookin’, others are ugly; so, the first are not so bad as the second—eh, lass?”
Mary laughed. She was accustomed to her fathers somewhat rough but not ill-natured rebuffs.
“Perhaps I may be prejudiced, father,” she returned; “but apart from that, surely you would never compare Buck Tom with Jake the Flint, though they do belong to the same band.”
“You are right, my lass,” rejoined her father. “They do say that Buck Tom is a gentleman, and often keeps back his boys from devilry—though he can’t always manage that, an’ no wonder, for Jake the Flint is the cruellest monster ’tween this an’ Texas if all that’s said of him be true.”
“I wish my comrade was well out o’ their clutches,” said Dick, with a look of anxiety; “an’ it makes me feel very small to be sittin’ here enjoyin’ myself when I might be ridin’ on to help him if he should need help.”
“Don’t worry yourself on that score,” said the host. “You couldn’t find your way without a guide though I was to give ye the best horse in my stable—which I’d do slick off if it was of any use. There’s not one o’ my boys on the ranch just now, but there’ll be four or five of ’em in to-morrow by daylight an’ I promise you the first that comes in. They all know the country for three hundred miles around—every inch—an’ you may ride my best horse till you drop him if ye can. There, now, wash down your victuals an’ give us a yarn, or a song.”
“I’m quite sure,” added Mary, by way of encouragement, “that with one of the outlaws for an old friend, Mr Brooke will be quite safe among them.”
“But he’s not an outlaw, Miss Mary,” broke in Darvall. “Leastwise we have the best reason for believin’ that he’s detained among them against his will. Hows’ever, it’s of no use cryin’ over spilt milk. I’m bound to lay at anchor in this port till mornin’, so, as I can’t get up steam for a song in the circumstances, here goes for a yarn.”