‘Thanks, no. It’s only a little ways to the horses.’
The dark laughing face was upturned again for an instant, and at this moment, from beyond the plaza across the town, came the first trumpet call of the rurales.
A rush past the small closed huts of Arecibo, women’s voices uttering prayers—guttural tones of frightened men—the signal from the hollow, where other horses were waiting. Elbert saw their pricked ears in the whitish light—nine or ten horses apparently, three men in charge. The released prisoners mounted at random, but Bart cleared from the tangle on a leaping wheeling mount that looked ashen-colored in the moonlight. A cracking of rifles from behind, the soldiers now having broken out the lower door. The rurales quartered across the town, couldn’t have gained the road so soon. Mamie had forged to the lead; at least, she was now abreast with the hound-bodied runner Bart sat.
‘That’s some horse you’re sittin’, Mister!’ the big fellow called. ‘Some more to her, too—she just can’t help it, can she? And handles with a light hand!’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Elbert.
He felt the strangest lift in his chest—Mamie beneath, Bart and the ashen runner at his side—a sorrel, to show that color in the moonlight—scatter of shots from behind, the deep whimsical voice again from his side:
‘I say, amigo mio—did you hold up a race-track special, too? They tell me I’m riding a stake-horse—old Mallet-head, here—but your mare isn’t asking any odds!’
‘She belonged to your father,’ Elbert answered throatily.
XXI
THE RIO MORENO BRIDGE
They were out of the town, riding west through open country—ten men, including himself, Elbert counted, one led-horse trailing. Bart had fixed the pace of the sorrel at a full run, but still Mamie had to be held in, not to forge ahead. Finally the words from Bart: