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Updated: May 27, 2025
Teodoro, he finds Señor Juanito’s purse in the road, he follows to give it back. He is not a bandido—he is not espía, a spy one. We are mustangers. Ask of Don Reese, of Señor Kells. Why, Señor Juanito, do you say Teodoro spy on you, why you hit him with the whip?" "Not thief, not spy!" The boy beside Drew dropped a wealed hand from his face.
All day long he snaps his revolver and pretends to be a bandido, and when he is not risking hell's fire in that way he is whirling his riata and jumping through it. Useless capers! He ropes the dog, he ropes the rose-bushes, he ropes fat Victoria, the cook, carrying a huge bowl of hot water to scald the ants' nest.
A gun is still useful, worth money, if he who picks it up from beside the dead does not want it for himself. So—such a bandido as this Kitchell, he could take horses, good, trained horses—maybe from the army—and he would run them south. He would sell them for money, sí, probably much money. But also he could trade for guns—two, three, five guns at a time.
Anse brought his mount up equal with the other two. Fenner spat. "Now that thar I ain’t cottonin’ to none. Ride ’long without some Injun or bandido poppin’ lead at m’back. Yep, that’s what a man kin enjoy. But I ain’t takin’ to have maybe one o’ them thar engine trains snortin’ out dirty smoke an’ sparks hereabouts. Took me a ride on one of them things onct—never agin!
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