Marah Ellis Ryan

The Treasure Trail Marah Ellis Ryan

In the shade of Pedro Vijil's little brown adobe on the Granados rancho, a horseman squatted to repair a broken cinch with strips of rawhide, while his horse--a strong dappled roan with a smutty face--stood near, the rawhide bridle over his head and the quirt trailing the ground. The horseman's frame of mind was evidently not of the sweetest, for to Vijil he had expressed himself in forcible Mexican--which is supposed to be Spanish and often isn't--condemning the luck by which the cinch had gone bad at the wrong time, and as he tinkered he sang softly an old southern ditty: Oh--oh! I'm a good old rebel, Now that's just what I am! For I won't be reconstructed And I don't care a damn!He varied this musical gem occasionally by whistling the air as he punched holes and wove the rawhide thongs in and out through the spliced leather. Once he halted in the midst of a strain and lifted his head, listening. Something like an echo of his own notes sounded very close, a mere shadow of a whistle.