"WILL YOU BE ONE OF US?"
Once inside his sleeping apartment, Borlasse shuts the door, points out
a chair to his invited guest, and plants himself upon another. With the
promised bottle of whisky between them, he resumes speech.
"I've asked you, Quantrell, to be one o' us. I've done it for your own
good, as you ought to know without my tellin' ye. Well; you asked me in
return what that means?"
"Yes, I did," rejoins Darke, speaking without purpose.
"It means, then," continues Borlasse, taking a gulp out of his glass,
"that me, an' the others you've been drinking with, air as good a set of
fellows as ever lived. That we're a cheerful party, you've seen for
yourself. What's passed this night ain't nowheres to the merry times we
spend upon the prairies out in Texas--for it's in Texas we live."
"May I ask, Mr Borlasse, what business you follow?"
"Well; when we're engaged in regular business, it's mostly
horse-catchin'. We rope wild horses, _mustangs_, as they're called; an'
sometimes them that ain't jest so wild. We bring 'em into the
settlements for sale. For which reason we pass by the name of
_mustangers_. Between whiles, when business isn't very brisk, we spend
our time in some of the Texas towns--them what's well in to'rds the Rio
Grande, whar there's a good sprinklin' of Mexikins in the population.
We've some rare times among the Mexikin girls, I kin assure you. You'll
take Jim Borlasse's word for that, won't you?"
"I have no cause to doubt it."
"Well, I needn't say more, need I? I know, Quantrell, you're fond of a
pretty face yourself, with sloe-black eyes in it. You'll see them among
the Mexikin saynoritas, to your heart's content. Enough o' 'em, maybe,
to make you forget the pair as war late glancin' at you out of the hotel
gallery."
"Glancing at me?" exclaims Darke, showing surprise, not unmixed with
alarm.
"Glancing at ye; strait custrut; them same eyes as inspired ye to do
that little bit of shootin', wi' Charley Clancy for a target."
"You think she _saw_ me?" asks the assassin, with increasing uneasiness.
"Think! I'm sure of it. More than saw--she recognised ye. I could
tell that from the way she shot back into the shadow. Did ye not notice
it yourself?"
"No," rejoins Darke, the monosyllable issuing mechanically from his
lips, while a shiver runs through his frame.