And then what, he thought, chuckling in spite of his predicament. He stepped forward again and his right spur ticked against a rock. He tugged at the brim of his hat, looked around and above once more, then lay his rifle against a boulder and stopped to remove the spurs. He placed them carefully atop the rock, marking the place well, thinking: one jingle might just cost me the ranch. He tried not to worry about Rocky, his old hunting horse, whom he had left in the splintery corral at Uncle Tony’s. No sign had indicated that his quarry was inclined to slow down and hang around. But the hammerheaded old foxtrotter gelding had been dancing around in a nervous way, not just ornery, until finally Juan decided that he might better cut a track on foot anyway.
He had almost reached the bottom of
