“Thet shore is fine. Was some worried,” he said, lazily. “I've been chasin' wild hosses over in New Mexico, an' I got after this heah blue roan. He kept me chasin' him fer a spell. I've fetched him back for Bo.”
Helen looked at the mustang Roy was holding, to be instantly delighted. He was a roan almost blue in color, neither large nor heavy, but powerfully built, clean-limbed, and racy, with a long mane and tail, black as coal, and a beautiful head that made Helen love him at once.
“Well, I'm jealous,” declared Helen, archly. “I never did see such a pony.”
“I reckoned you'd never ride any hoss but Ranger,” said Las Vegas.
“No, I never will. But I can be jealous, anyhow, can't I?”
“Shore. An I reckon if you say you're goin' to have him—wal, Bo 'd be funny,” he drawled.
“I reckon she would be funny,” retorted Helen. She was so happy that she imitated his speech. She wanted to hug him. It was too good to be true—the return of this cowboy. He understood her. He had come back with nothing that could alienate her. He had apparently forgotten the terrible role he had accepted and the doom he had meted out to her enemies. That moment was wonderful for Helen in its revelation of the strange significance of the West as embodied in this cowboy. He was great. But he did not know that.
Then the door of the living-room opened, and a sweet, high voice pealed out:
“Roy! Oh, what a mustang! Whose is he?”
“Wal, Bo, if all I hear is so he belongs to you,” replied Roy with a huge grin.