Ranse walked out toward the _jacals_. A boy came running.

"Manuel, can you catch Vaminos, in the little pasture, for me?"

"Why not, señor? I saw him near the _puerta_ [64] but two hours past.
He bears a drag-rope."

[FOOTNOTE 64: puerta--(Spanish) gate]

"Get him and saddle him as quick as you can."

"_Prontito, señor_."

Soon, mounted on Vaminos, Ranse leaned in the saddle, pressed with his
knees, and galloped eastward past the store, where sat Sam trying his
guitar in the moonlight.

Vaminos shall have a word--Vaminos the good dun horse. The Mexicans,
who have a hundred names for the colours of a horse, called him
_gruyo_. He was a mouse-coloured, slate-coloured, flea-bitten
roan-dun, if you can conceive it. Down his back from his mane to his
tail went a line of black. He would live forever; and surveyors have
not laid off as many miles in the world as he could travel in a day.

Eight miles east of the Cibolo ranch-house Ranse loosened the pressure
of his knees, and Vaminos stopped under a big ratama tree. The yellow
ratama blossoms showered fragrance that would have undone the roses of
France. The moon made the earth a great concave bowl with a crystal
sky for a lid. In a glade five jack-rabbits leaped and played together
like kittens. Eight miles farther east shone a faint star that