At the first sound of water in over five hours of hard brush-busting riding, Ramón and Clint dismounted and let the horses drink.
Before they could drink their fill, Ramón pulled their heads up. “It would not do to let them bloat themselves,” the vaquero said.
“Will we ride straight through?” Clint asked.
“Yes. We must have time to warn the ranchos and the pueblo. After we alert Don Estoban and my father, you can ride to the Juarez and Alverado Rancho while I ride on into the pueblo. That way there is no chance you will run into the crew of the Charleston or this Captain Sharpentier.”
“If you need me to ride into town, I will. It’s time I solved that problem.”
“You have plenty to do, amigo. Then we will meet back at Rancho del Robles Viejos.
“How long before we reach the rancho?”
“By dawn, if our horses don’t give out.” Ramón swung into the saddle. The country had flattened out and the trail improved, so he spurred the horse into a gallop. He was twenty yards ahead by the time Clint followed.