"It's ordered by the Pope or somebody.
And it has something to do with the Zodiac I don't know exactly, but I think it was invented by the Egyptians."
"It's an all-right jubilee if the heathens did put their brand on it," said Pearson; "or else Tonia wouldn't have anything to do with it. And they pull it off at church, too.
Suppose there ain't but one hat in the Lone Elm store, Burr!"
"Then," said Burrows, darkly, "the best man of us'll take it back to the Espinosa."
"Oh, man!" cried Pearson, throwing his hat high and catching it again, "there's nothing like you come off the sheep ranges before.
You talk good and collateral to the occasion.
And if there's more than one?"
"Then," said Burrows, "we'll pick our choice and one of us'll get back first with his and the other won't."
"There never was two souls," proclaimed Pearson to the stars, "that beat more like one heart than yourn and mine.
Me and you might be riding on a unicorn and thinking out of the same piece of mind."
At a little past midnight the riders loped into Lone Elm.
The half a hundred houses of the big village were dark. On its only street the big wooden store stood barred and shuttered.
In a few moments the horses were fastened and Pearson was pounding cheerfully on the door of old Sutton, the storekeeper.
The barrel of a Winchester came through a cranny of a solid window shutter followed by a short inquiry.
"Wells Pearson, of the Mucho Calor, and Burrows, of Green Valley," was the response.
"We want to buy some goods in the store.
Sorry to wake you up but we must have 'em.
Come on out, Uncle Tommy, and get a move on you."
Uncle Tommy was slow, but at length they got him behind his counter with a kerosene lamp lit, and told him of their dire need.
"Easter hats?" said Uncle Tommy, sleepily.
"Why, yes, I believe I have got just a couple left.
I only ordered a dozen this spring.
I'll show 'em to you."
Now, Uncle Tommy Sutton was a merchant, half asleep or awake. In dusty pasteboard boxes under the counter he had two left-over spring hats.
But, alas! for his commercial probity on that early Saturday morn—they were hats of two springs ago, and a woman's eye would have detected the fraud at half a glance.
But to the unintelligent gaze of the cowpuncher and the sheepman they seemed fresh from the mint of contemporaneous April.
The hats were of a variety once known as "cart-wheels."
They were of stiff straw, colored red, and flat brimmed.
Both were exactly alike, and trimmed lavishly around their crowns with full blown, immaculate, artificial white roses.
"That all you got, Uncle Tommy?" said Pearson.
"All right.
Not much choice here, Burr.
Take your pick."
"They're the latest styles" lied Uncle Tommy.
"You'd see 'em on Fifth Avenue, if you was in New York."
Uncle Tommy wrapped and tied each hat in two yards of dark calico for a protection.
One Pearson tied carefully to his calfskin saddle-thongs; and the other became part of Road Runner's burden.
They shouted thanks and farewells to Uncle Tommy, and cantered back into the night on the home stretch.
The horsemen jockeyed with all their skill.
They rode more slowly on their way back.
The few words they spoke were not unfriendly.
Burrows had a Winchester under his left leg slung over his saddle horn. Pearson had a six shooter belted around him.
Thus men rode in the Frio country.
At half-past seven in the morning they rode to the top of a hill and saw the Espinosa Ranch, a white spot under a dark patch of live-oaks, five miles away.
The sight roused Pearson from his drooping pose in the saddle.
He knew what Road Runner could do.
The sorrel was lathered, and stumbling frequently; Road Runner was pegging away like a donkey engine.
Pearson turned toward the sheepman and laughed. "Good-bye, Burr," he cried, with a wave of his hand.
"It's a race now. We're on the home stretch."