"Sure, sure...." He looked at the priest, a little doubtful how to proceed. The negro journalist continued talking, in a sort of exaltation:
"I never start on an expedition of this kind that I do not think, 'Perhaps to-day I am making history.' That is a wonderful thought, Father Benicio—history! Think! Perhaps this very moment is historic! Perhaps it will be embalmed in the memory of the future. It is just as if we should march forever through the mind of mankind! Other deedless generations will rise up and vanish as unremarked as the succeeding harvests of llano grass, but perhaps what we do to-day will be painted, carved in marble, sung in song, and told in story as long as civilization lasts! I say it is possible!"
Such a dithyramb from a negro among a band of horse-thieves moved Strawbridge with a certain disgust. He drew a handkerchief and wiped his sweaty, gritty face.
"I guess you're making history for that English ranch," he satirized; "a record of these horses will appear in their profit-and-loss column."
Gumersindo looked around at the drummer, and suddenly began to laugh.
"Caramba! He's thinking about the dollars and cents of this adventure!"
This was just the fillip needed to set the drummer off. He straightened in his saddle.
"Well, by God, it's not dollars and cents, either; it's just plain honesty. I don't know how you fellows feel, but I'm damned uncomfortable riding a horse we stole from Tolliver!"
Both editor and priest were staring at him.
"What a disturbance over a detail!" ejaculated the black man.