SON OF THE WIND
It was Esmeralda Charley standing, shading his eyes with his hand, Carron came up to him panting. The surrounding, and the expectation it aroused in him were having their effect. Weariness, wrath, aching nerves, worn upon by suspense, wrung by the cruel twist circumstance had given him at the last, were beginning to disappear in a blaze of excitement. Abreast his man he stopped, drew out his watch mechanically and looked at it. Half-past two. "Well?" he asked, "how is it?"
"I can't drive him," said Esmeralda Charley.
The words dashed counter to Carron's thoughts. "What's that?" he said sharply. "What's the matter?"
"I don't know," the vaquero replied without emotion. "He won't drive—not like any I ever saw."
"You mean he doesn't move?"
"Oh, yes, he moves—but the way he thinks—like that, like that!" With his fingers he illustrated all directions.
Carron stared. He had never seen so much eloquence in the fellow. "Did you try him with the mares?"
"He doesn't follow."
The horse-breaker glanced at the corral. At the instant he looked no horses were in sight, but while he looked the chestnut mare broke from the trees
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