"She's been living at José's for a month," muttered Bascomb to himself, but in a voice loud enough for Matt to hear, "and she could stand him, but José said she couldn't bear Juan Morisco. It was bad business sending Juan after her. José had to tie her to the wagon to keep her from running off when Morisco came. But that doctor was wrong!" and Bascomb raised his voice and once more turned to Matt.
This soliloquy of Bascomb's gave Matt fresh food for thought. Bascomb spurred his tired horse cruelly, and they got past Hot Springs at a fairly good gait.
"What did the girl say?" asked Bascomb, when they were well to the south of Hot Springs, and picking their way among the litter of stones. "Did she say anything about herself, or about her folks?"
"She wouldn't say anything about herself or her people," replied Matt.
"True-blue!" muttered Bascomb huskily. "She'll pull through—she always had grit; but I wish I was sure!"
A mile north of the notch Bascomb's horse fell under him. He had been forcing the animal ahead impatiently, and as he fell floundering to the ground over the horse's head, he swore a fierce oath.
One of the revolvers had dropped out of Bascomb's belt. Unseen by its owner, Matt picked it up.
Bascomb, in spite of his temper over the giving out of the horse, knelt beside the animal and unrove the cinches. Pulling the saddle loose, he cast it aside; then he removed the bridle and threw it after the saddle.
"You served me well, you poor brute," said he, "but not well enough."
He whirled away. Matt was looking at him along the barrel of the revolver. He started back with another oath.