Breakfast next morning is day-old biscuits and water, then we’re back on the road.
We reach Salida early afternoon. It’s stretched out on a plain with a single mountain off to one side. A river, likely the Arkansas again, runs through town. We go around the place and head into a small valley a few miles beyond. Here are trees, good grass, the river snaking through, and over to one side, a ranch house.
We turn the horses into a corral and Jack meets the rancher, who seems to know him. I stay back, being just the help. The fellow looks over the stock, appears pleased, and he and Jack go into the house, where I suppose they seal the deal.
When Jack comes out half an hour later, he says only, “Let’s go.”
We climb back into the saddle.
“How about a meal in Salida?” I ask. “Get the horses f
