“Oh, I want to go back to the Rio Grande! The Rio! That’s where I long to be!”
The words, sung in a soft and musical tenor, died away and changed to a plaintive whistle, leaving the scene more lonely than ever. For a few moments nothing was to be seen except the endless expanse of wilderness, and nothing was to be heard save the mournful warble of the singer. Then a horse and rider were suddenly framed where the sparse timber opened out upon the plain. Together, man and mount made a striking picture; yet it would have been hard to say which was the more picturesque—the rider or the horse. The latter was a splendid beast, and its spotless hide of snowy white glowed in the rays of the afternoon sun. The rider, still whistling his Texas tune, swung in the concha-decorated California stock saddle as if he were a part of his horse. He was a lithe young figure, dressed in fringed buckskin, touched here and there with the gay colors of the Southwest and of Mexico. Two six-guns, wooden-handled, were suspended from a cartridge belt of carved leather, and hung low on each hip. “Reckon we-all bettah cut south, Blizzahd,” he drawled to his horse. “We haven’t got any business on the Llano.” By listening we’ll find out where he’s headed next.
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