A few hundred yards beyond the fence, Brevoort
reined in. "Mexico," he said, gesturing round about. "Our job is to
ride to the Ortez rancho and get that outfit movin' up this way."
"Goin' to turn the cattle over to 'em?" queried Pete.
"Yes--and that quick they won't know they got 'em. It's a big deal, if
she goes through. If she don't, it's like to be the finish of the
Olla."
"Meanin' if the T-Bar-T and the Concho gits busy, there's like to be
some smoke blowin' down this way?"
"The same. Recollect what I was tellin' you this mornin'."
"About Brent sendin' a man into a fight?"
"Yes. But I wasn't figurin' on provin' it to you so quick," drawled
the Texan. "Hold your horse down to a walk. We'll save speed for a
spell. No, I wasn't figurin' on this. You see, when I hired out to
Brent, I knew what I was doin'--so I told him I'd jest earn my pay on
the white side of the border--but no Mexico for mine. That was the
understandin'. Now he goes to work and sends you and me down into this
here country on a job which is only fit for a Greaser. I'm goin' to
see it through, but I done made my last ride for the Olla.
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