Part 2 (2/2)

”But he's no cow pony--surely.”

”You ain't never heard o' Sunnysides?”

”No.”

He looked at her curiously.

”Of course not,” he said apologetically. ”You're f'm the city. East, maybe?”

”Yes, I'm from New York.”

”Then it's natch'ral. Everybody in these parts has heard o'

Sunnysides, though it's not many that's seen him.”

”Please tell me about him.”

The man's eyes brightened a little.

”He's got some strange blood in him,” he began. ”n.o.body knows what it is, but th' ain't another one o' that color, nor his devil spirit, in the whole bunch. The rest of 'em's just ordinary wild horses runnin'

up an' down the sandhills of the San Luis. There's people't say he's a ghost horse. Fact! An' they say't he'll never stay caught. I don't know. It's certain't he's been caught three times,--not countin' the times cow-punchers an' others has thought they'd caught him, but hadn't. The first time he was caught actual he broke out o' the strongest corral in the San Luis--at night--an' n.o.body sees hide nor hair of 'im--not so much as a flicker o' yellow in the moonlight. An'

back he was, headin' the herd again.

”Nex' time Thad Brinker ropes him. Thad's the topnotch cow-puncher between the Black Hills an' the Rio Grande, an' he comes all the way f'm Dakoty when he hears the yarn about Sunnysides. Thad gits fourteen men to help him round up the bunch, an' then he ropes the gold feller after a fight that's talked about yit in the San Luis. He ropes him. An' then what does Brinker do?”

He looked at Marion as if he dared her to make as many guesses as she wished. She shook her head.

”You ain't the only one that'd never hit it,” he went on with satisfaction. ”Thad ropes him, an' while they lay there restin', Sunnysides all tied up so he can't move, an' Brinker rubbin' some b.u.mps he'd come by in the fracas, just then the red comes up onto Sangre de Cristo. Brinker sees it--Ever seen the sunset color on Sangre de Cristo? No? That's a pity, Miss. Indeed, that's a pity. But you're f'm Noo York, you said.”

He paused again, and Marion began to realize the full degree of her provinciality and ignorance. She was from New York. What a pity!

”Well,” said the cowboy, as if resolved to do the best he could in the circ.u.mstances, ”sometimes--maybe three or four times a year--it's weird. It's religious. The white peaks turn red as blood--that's why they're called Sangre de Cristo. It's Spanish for Blood of Christ. It makes you feel queer-like”--He paused a moment thoughtfully, watching the golden horse as it stepped quietly, lightly, with head high, just ahead of them. ”The red comes onto Sangre de Cristo, an' Brinker sees it. He looks at the blood on the peaks, an' then at the gold horse lyin' there all torn an' dirty, an' this is what Brinker does, an'

maybe he couldn't help it. He ups an' cuts the ropes, an' Sunnysides's off to his waitin' bunch, an' they all go snortin' down the valley.”

There was a touch of awe in the man's voice, and Marion felt a little of it too. She looked toward the serrated barrier of mountains, in the very middle of which stood old Thunder under his pall of cloud. Beyond lay San Luis--Sangre de Cristo--and what romance! Would she ever--Her eyes rested for a moment on the black pile that now, as always, fascinated and yet disturbed her.

”And you?” she said at length, turning to the cowboy.

”There wasn't no red sunset this time,” the man answered, with a grim smile. ”But we ain't slep' since,” he added, with a return of weariness.

”You caught him?” she asked admiringly.

”Us three.”

”But what are you doing with him here?”

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