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"Where's the tick-tock?" he asked, absent-mindedly. "The clock," cried old "Kiowa" loudly. "The eight-day clock used to stand there. Why " He turned to Ranse, but Ranse was not there. Already a hundred yards away, Vaminos, the good flea-bitten dun, was bearing him eastward like a racer through dust and chaparral towards the Rancho de los Olmos.
Down his back from his mane to his tail went a line of black. He would live forever; and surveyors have not laid off as many miles in the world as he could travel in a day. Eight miles east of the Cibolo ranch-house Ranse loosened the pressure of his knees, and Vaminos stopped under a big ratama tree. The yellow ratama blossoms showered fragrance that would have undone the roses of France.
Ranse walked out toward the jacals. A boy came running. "Manuel, can you catch Vaminos, in the little pasture, for me?" "Why not, señor? I saw him near the puerta but two hours past. He bears a drag-rope." "Get him and saddle him as quick as you can." "Prontito, señor."
When the supply of sheep was in and the panels closed, the captain gave the shrill cry, "Vaminos" and all hands rushed in among the frightened animals and dragged out their chosen victims by the leg. They showed great shrewdness in selecting the small, the light-woolled, the easy-to-be-shorn.
Soon, mounted on Vaminos, Ranse leaned in the saddle, pressed with his knees, and galloped eastward past the store, where sat Sam trying his guitar in the moonlight. Vaminos shall have a word Vaminos the good dun horse. The Mexicans, who have a hundred names for the colours of a horse, called him gruyo. He was a mouse-coloured, slate-coloured, flea-bitten roan-dun, if you can conceive it.
Soon, mounted on Vaminos, Ranse leaned in the saddle, pressed with his knees, and galloped eastward past the store, where sat Sam trying his guitar in the moonlight. Vaminos shall have a word Vaminos the good dun horse. The Mexicans, who have a hundred names for the colours of a horse, called him /gruyo/. He was a mouse-coloured, slate-coloured, flea-bitten roan- dun, if you can conceive it.
"Where's the tick-tock?" he asked, absent-mindedly. "The clock," cried old "Kiowa" loudly. "The eight-day clock used to stand there. Why " He turned to Ranse, but Ranse was not there. Already a hundred yards away, Vaminos, the good flea-bitten dun, was bearing him eastward like a racer through dust and chaparral towards the Rancho de los Olmos.
Ranse walked out toward the /jacals/. A boy came running. "Manuel, can you catch Vaminos, in the little pasture, for me?" "Why not, senor? I saw him near the /puerta/ but two hours past. He bears a drag-rope." "Get him and saddle him as quick as you can." "/Prontito, senor/."
Down his back from his mane to his tail went a line of black. He would live forever; and surveyors have not laid off as many miles in the world as he could travel in a day. Eight miles east of the Cibolo ranch-house Ranse loosened the pressure of his knees, and Vaminos stopped under a big ratama tree. The yellow ratama blossoms showered fragrance that would have undone the roses of France.