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Updated: May 11, 2025
He gave one low whine, and cast a reproachful eye on me and the blue roan. Then he turned, and with his head down set off with great lopes on the track of the road I had ridden in the morning. A second later and I was in the saddle, riding hell-for-leather for the north. Literally, 'The Hill which is not to be pointed at'. Literally, 'Very sacred thing'. A species of buck, famous for its speed.
His friend helped him to the ground. The wound was in the thigh. "I'll tie it up for you an' you'll be good as new," promised his friend. The older man looked toward the gorge. No Indians were in sight. "I can wait, but that little girl in the hands of those devils can't. Are you game to play a lone hand, kid?" he asked. "I reckon." "Then ride hell-for-leather up Escondido.
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