Stover issued another order, this time to Carara. "You 'n Cloudy butcher the wildest four-year-old you can find. If you can't get close enough to rope him, shoot him, and bring in a hind quarter. It's got to be here in time for breakfast."
"Si, Senor!" The Mexican picked up his lariat; the Indian took a
Winchester from an upper bunk and filled it with cartridges.
"Of course, he'll have to eat out here; they spoil him up at the house."
"Sure thing!"
"I'd hate to see him lose; it would be a terrible blow to Miss
Blake." Fresno shook his head doubtfully.
"What about us?"
"Oh, you can stand it—but she's a girl. Ah, well," the speaker sighed, "I hope nothing occurs between now and Saturday to prevent his running."
"It won't," Stover grimly assured the Californian. "Nothin' whatever is goin' to occur."
"He was speaking yesterday about the possibility of some business engagement—"
The small man in glasses interrupted. "Nothin' but death shall take him from us, Mr. Fresno."