"He seems to object to my passin' criticism on
your wife, as if she was a queen or an angel."
The blood came to Spencer's cheek, and he turned uneasily to the window.
"It's dark enough now for a start," he said hurriedly, "and if I could
get across the mountain without lying over at the summit, it would be a
day gained."
Patterson arose without a word, filled a flask of spirit, handed it to
his friend, and silently led the way through the slowly falling rain and
the now settled darkness. The mustang was quickly secured and saddled, a
heavy poncho afforded Tucker a disguise as well as a protection from the
rain. With a few hurried, disconnected words, and an abstracted air, he
once more shook his friend's hand and issued cautiously from the corral.
When out of earshot from the house he put spurs to the mustang, and
dashed into a gallop.
To intersect the mountain road he was obliged to traverse part of the
highway his wife had walked that afternoon, and to pass within a mile of
the casa where she was.
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