Mrs. de Courcey’s dachshunds broke the tension, straining at their leash and yapping like a pair of animated little sausages. Their mistress was in proper riding clothes, and looked as if she hadn’t slept for weeks. But so, I thought, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror, did I, and so did all of us.
“What about comin’ out to th’ ranch fo’ a ride this evenin’, Miz’ Latham,” Cowboy Joe drawled lazily. “Ah’ve got English saddles, if you don’ like West’n.”
“I’ll see,” I said.
He crossed the lobby to the desk, Whitey at his heels, and they went out with Kaye Gorman, Sergeant Buck eyeing them with a sort of fishy distaste . . . though Heaven knows he was at least infinitely gaudier than they were, in his bright orange shirt and jewelled boots. He put a half-dollar in the slot and pulle
