Bourke swung into the driver’s seat, clucked comfortably, and always obedient, the Little White Mare turned from the freight yard into the dusty road.
A strange creature, this man with the big, soft hands—no sharp, jerking rein, the whip, forgotten; maybe he slept; when Estevan slept he awoke with, always, a crueler lash.
For all animals Bourke had a tender friendliness, and the sight of the scarred, decrepit back patiently jogging between the shafts irritated him, as did the nervous wince the old mare gave when he joggled the whip-handle in the broken socket. The idea grew in grim delectability that she might, of her own habit, deliver her tormentor to the law.
“Now’s your chance to get even, old girl,” he muttered; then louder, “take me to him—casa—sige casa!”
Reins flat on her back, a full stomach and an easy mind, that strange association memory said to the Little White Mare that it was time to be at home, in the dirty stall, with the empty manger and the sleeping flies.
Jog, jog, past the sleeping ’dobes, past the shops, into the familiar alley—home, at last!
Bourke was gone; from the house beyond the stable partition came Estevan’s voice, high, whining, pleading.
A shrill whistle outside; other voices; the whir of the patrol speeding townward; silence; sleep.
The Little White Mare was avenged.