“I haven’t got a horse,” answered Duncan, “and all the company caballos will be out to-day. I heard old Hodges down at the corral after lunch cursing like a pirate at the amount of saddling that he had to do. Right in the midst of his growling, Miss Cameron came along, and wanted a horse. The old man pretty nearly fell over himself trying to accommodate her. There’s something about her that seems to affect people that way. Quite a convenient trait, I should think!”
Stephen agreed silently, and in his mind added considerably more, then strode off to the corral for his pony.
As he slung the saddle across his horse’s back and cinched the girth, he fumbled a little, for his mind was not upon the task, but upon a certain curl, which defying combs or hairpins, waved capriciously at the turn of a girl’s neck.
Horses, however, have little sympathy with sentiment, and while Loring tugged absent-mindedly at the straps, the little beast puffed and squealed, trying to arrange for a comfortable space between his round, gray belly and the girth. Stephen, placing his left hand on the head-piece, and his right on the pommel, swung himself into the saddle, in spite of the pony’s antics. Soon he was loping out of camp, and down towards the river. The clear sunshine struck his neck beneath his broad hat; the alkali dust tasted smoky and almost invigorating.
As he left the camp behind him, he laughed and sang softly to himself, beating with his unspurred heel the time of his song against his pony’s ribs. He blessed the extravagance which had led him to invest half a month’s pay in “Muy Bueno,” as the horse was christened to indicate the owner’s assurance that he was “very fine.” Leaning forward, Loring playfully pulled “Muy Bueno’s” ears. The pony shook its head in annoyance. This was no holiday for him.
After a short distance the ground began to rise, and the pony, with lowered head, buckled to his task, resolutely attacking the trail which zig-zagged up the steep mountainside.
Half way up the rise stood a saloon. As Loring approached it, he heard roars of laughter. In it there was that quality which only liquor can produce. As he drew nearer he could see the reason for the laughter. Before the saloon was a girl on horseback, her pony balking, and flatly refusing to proceed. The doorway was full of half drunken miners, calling out advice of varied import. The saloon keeper, himself a bit flushed, called out: “She’s got Tennessee Bob’s old pony. He never would go by here without taking a drink, and I reckon the horse sort of inherited the habit.”
Stephen took in the situation at once. Riding up quickly, he cut the stubborn pony across the flank with his quirt. The animal quivered for a moment, then as another stinging blow fell, galloped on up the trail.
“Hell, Loring! what you want to do a thing like that for? Funniest thing I’ve seen in a month,” growled a man in the crowd.
Stephen only waved his hand in answer and rode on after the girl, whom he had no difficulty in recognizing. A couple of hundred yards of hard riding brought him up with her.