At the bottom was a Mexican 'dobe,
a ramshackle stable and corral. And there hung the Olla beneath an
acacia. A saddle lay near the corral bars. Several horses moved about
lazily . . . The hero of the recent gun-fight was riding into the yard
. . . Some one was coming from the 'dobe. Pete almost gasped as a
Mexican girl, young, lithe, and smiling, stepped into the foreground
and held out her hands as the hero swung from his horse. The girl was
taller and more slender than Boca--yet in the close-up which followed,
while her lover told her of the tribulations he had recently
experienced, the girl's face was the face of Boca--the same sweetly
curved and smiling mouth, the large dark eyes, even the manner in which
her hair was arranged . . .
Pete nudged Brevoort. "I reckon we better drift," he whispered.
"How's that, Pete?"
"The girl there in the picture. Mebby you think I'm loco, but there's
somethin' always happens every time I see her."
"You got a hunch, eh?"
"I sure got one."
"Then we play it." And Brevoort rose. They blinked their way to the
entrance, pushed through the crowd at the doorway, and started toward
their room.
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