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"You have really been down there, Moore?" he questioned, half unbelieving. "Oh, I made it all right," boastfully. "But it's no picnic. I'd hate like hell to risk it at night, but that's the only chance you fellows will have to git down. It would be like trap-shootin' for them Mexes if you tried it now."
And his keen eyes had caught sight of Santan crouching in an angle of the wall, watching them. "Indians and Mexes don't mix a lot. And Bev oughtn't mix with either one," Rex commented. "I'll line the boy up for review to-morrow, so Mat won't say I've neglected him." But the Yankee took the precaution to follow the trail to the Indian's possible abiding-place on the outskirts of Santa Fé.
Garvey will have a hundred Mexes and Injuns with him before mornin'." Kid Wolf accepted, and the coach was deserted. They buried the bodies of the men they had brought in the stage, not in the Lost Springs graveyard, but in an arroyo near it. Then they removed the valuable express box and took it with them to the Johnson adobe.
Moore swept his eyes over the dull range of sand, expectorated thoughtfully, and rammed his hands deep into his trouser-pockets. He was slow about answering, but the two men waited motionless. "If it was me," he said finally. "I'd take it on foot. It'll be a jaunt ov near on to three miles, unless yer want ter risk bein' seen by them Mexes on the main trail.
"Well, could Jim and I make it say after dark?" Moore laughed, the reckless boy in him again uppermost. "Mebbe so; but I reckon ye'd be dead when yer got thar. Thar's allers two Mexes on guard when Mendez is in the valley. He ain't takin' no chances o' gettin' caught that way." "Where are they?" "Just below the top, whar they kin see out over the desert.
"Well, Texas sure is a great big piece o’ country, so maybe you don’t know ’bout them river tricks. Wet hosses—they’s hosses what is run off up here, driven down to th’ border where they’s swapped for hosses what some Mex bandidos have thrown a sticky loop over. Then th’ Mexes take them Anglo hosses south an’ sell ’em, where their brands ain’t gonna git nobody into noose trouble.
Likely they've got a dead range on the front door, an' them Mexes have had all they want tryin' to get to 'em in that way. So now they're crawlin' in through the window. There'll be some hellabaloo in there presently to my notion, an' I want ter be thar ter see the curtain go up. Wharabouts are we, Matt?" "Back o' the bunk-house. Whar do yer want ter go?
Down Sonora way one of them Mexes would dig right down to th’ bottom of his money chest to buy a hoss like that. I’ll go an’ tell Sing." Drew, coffee mug in hand, sat down at a table where some of the breeze beat in the door now and then. Lord, he was really tired. He stretched out his legs, and the sun made twinkly points of light on the rowels of the Mexican spurs.
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