“What will we do when we get to wherever we’re going, Papa?”
“Hush, George. I’ll tell you later. We don’t want anyone to know we’re leaving.”
“I’m sorry.”
He dropped a kiss on his son’s curly hair, then settled George’s hat on his head. “Stay quiet until I tell you.” He kept the horses and the mule at an easy walk. Once they were out of sight of the hacienda, he’d set them at a ground-eating pace, heading northeast. Eventually they’d make their way back to the States, where they’d build a new life. 2
“I’m really proud of the way you sit that mustang, George,” Papa said, “but we’ve got to get you a saddle.”
“Yes, sir.” George grinned up at him. Papa was the best horseman he knew—even better than the Sioux and Cheyenne they’d crossed paths with—and hearing that made him proud.