Disturbed in their myriad sleep, the flies buzzed mightily. Estevan’s heavy slap fell on her shoulder, and in the starry darkness he hustled her out of the stall and into harness. Past dark rows of ’dobes and one-storied shops—jog—jog; jolt—jolt over rough tracks where the shrieking engines run; a smothered “’Spero” brought the Little White Mare to an obedient halt in the black shadow of a freight-car.
Men waited there for Estevan, there were signs and whispers. What business of hers! She lowered her head to nose a pile of sacks; one was torn; cautiously she smelled, then licked it. Heavenly! a substance rough like salt, that turned magically on one’s tongue to smooth, slippery, ineffable sweetness! Sugar it was, a carload, sent from dangerous Mexico to the safety of these United States. In the deep shadow the thieves skilfully shifted the sacks from the car to Estevan, who swung them into his cart.
Something amiss! The men muttered to each other, crouched, dropped from cart to car, disappeared in the black beyond. Industriously the Little White Mare nuzzled the torn burlap into whose folds the delightful fodder was receding.
Dazzling light—big men—men different from Estevan—everywhere—in the cart—around it at her head.
“Vamoosed! Hell take it!” was the verdict.
“And will you look who’s here,” cried the biggest, turning his torch on the laden cart. “Lord love you, it’s a haul for a Packard truck! They sure got this old bonebag anchored! Must be a ton or two on that wagon. Well, men, shift most of this to the patrol, seal the car, and run in this outfit as evidence.”
The Little White Mare stood at ease, contented, warm and sleepy, while the big man at her head rubbed back of her ear in a delightful and unaccustomed way.
The patrol whirled away.
“All right, Bourke,” they called, “you can escort the corpse.”
“Look out for the speed-cop, bo. It’s four blocks to the boneyard.”