Pete hesitated. He thought of dismounting and going in and
speaking to Flores's wife. But no! It would do neither of them any
good. Flores had intimated that she had gone crazy. And Pete did not
want to talk of Boca--nor hear her name mentioned. "Boca's where she
ain't worryin' about anybody," he reflected as he swung round and rode
out of town.
Once before he had camped in the same draw, a few miles west of
Showdown, and Blue Smoke seemed to know the place, for he had swung
from the trail of his own accord, striding straight to the water-hole.
"And if you keep on actin' polite," Pete told the pony as he hobbled
him that evening, "you'll get a good reputation, like Jim Owen said;
which is plumb necessary, if you an' me's goin' to be pals. But if
gettin' a good reputation is goin' to spoil your wind or legs any--why,
jest keep on bein' onnery--which Jim was tellin' me is called
'Character.'"
As Pete hardened to the saddle and Blue Smoke hardened to the trail,
they traveled faster and farther each day, until, on the Blue Mesa,
where the pony grazed and Pete squatted beside his night-fire in the
open, they were but a half-day's journey from the Concho.
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