“He picked us up,” smiled her father. “I dunno who owns him. There was a piece of rope dragging and we took it off, ’cause it was always gettin’ hung up on somethin’. Friendly cuss, ain’t he.”
Geronimo danced around, as if he knew what was being said about him. Apostle Paul Taylor was a tall, skinny, lean-faced man, with a hooked nose, wide mouth and deep-set gray eyes. His hair was fast turning gray, and he stooped a trifle.
Buck Taylor was almost replica of his father, except that he was bow-legged, had a mop of brown hair, and did not stoop. The half-breed, Peeler, was heavy-set, deep-chested, typically Indian in features, and showing little of his white blood. The two Taylors were dressed in blue calico shirts, overalls, chaps, high-heeled boots and sombreros. The half-breed’s raiment was practically the same, except that he wore a faded red shirt, scarlet muffler, and his hat-band was a riot of colored beads.
All three men wore belts and holstered guns, and in addition to this the two Taylors had rifles hung to their saddles. They were dusty, weary from their long ride. The Apostle Paul dismounted and handed his reins to Peeler.
“Did yuh find any stock on the mesa?” asked Marion.
“About thirty head,” replied her father. “Wild as hawks, too. We brought ’em in as far as Buzzard Springs. Anythin’ new?”
“Not a thing, Dad.”
“You ain’t tried ridin’ Spike, have yuh?”
Marion shook her head and looked at the blue-black.
“Then yuh better let Buck or Peeler fork him first. He ain’t been saddled for three months.”