His relief was inexpressible for a minute. He had made good, if there was not another word spoken. ‘One of the finest men I ever knew!’ he added.
No answer from Bart.
Now gradually Elbert began to realize he was running with what was left of Monte Vallejo’s band. There hadn’t been any time to think or choose back in el cuartel. He had jumped at the chance to ride out with Bart; that meant he had cast his lot with the bandits; identified once and for all with a fragment of the outlaws, now hunted from all quarters of Sonora. Still, a kind of freedom throbbed in him, his nostrils dilated to the smell of dust in the night—a man beside, a horse beneath. Finally above the thud of hoofs, Bart’s voice again:
‘What did they lock you up for?’
‘My mare, Mamie here, I guess. They thought she was one of the race-horses—’
‘Thought you were one of us,’ Bart chuckled. ‘How long have you been locked up?’
‘Last night—or night before last—if it’s getting on toward morning.’
‘Two hours to daybreak yet.’
In the silence after that, Elbert became queerly aware that Bart wanted to ask more about his father, but couldn’t get his voice to working. The words reached him:
‘So they kicked off Monte yesterday morning?’