Tharon reached El Rey. She stuck her right-hand weapon in its holster, loosed the rein, flung it over the stallion’s head, stepped around his shoulder and mounted deftly and swiftly from the wrong side. It was a pretty trick of horsemanship and showed up her adroitness. As El Rey rose on his hind feet, whirling, that unwavering muzzle whirled also, to keep in line. The king struck into his gait and his rider, facing backward, swung away down the narrow street. Until she was well out of range the tension held.
Then Steptoe Service struck a fist into a palm 68 and began to swear in a fury, but Courtrey laughed, one of his rare, short bursts of mirth that were more bodeful than oaths.
He turned on his heel and strode back the way he had come.
The stranger in the uniform walked forward, went up the steps, crossed the porch, and, stooping, picked up the meal-sack which Tharon had dropped.
“Will some one kindly tell me who the young lady is and where she lives?” he asked gravely.
Baston, unglued from the wall, spoke up with his usual pompous eagerness.
“Tharon, from Last’s Holdin’,” he said.
“Thanks,” and the man wrapped the sack into a small bundle and tied it with its own string.
He stuck it under one arm and taking out a short brown pipe, proceeded to fill and light it.
Courtrey, halted a few rods away, eyed him sharply.