“Oh, I want to go back to the Rio Grande! The Rio! That’s where I long to be!”

The words, sung in a soft and musical tenor, died away and changed to a plaintive whistle, leaving the scene more lonely than ever. For a few moments nothing was to be seen except the endless expanse of wilderness, and nothing was to be heard save the mournful warble of the singer. Then a horse and rider were suddenly framed where the sparse timber opened out upon the plain. Together, man and mount made a striking picture; yet it would have been hard to say which was the more picturesque—the rider or the horse. The latter was a splendid beast, and its spotless hide of snowy white glowed in the rays of the afternoon sun. The rider, still whistling his Texas tune, swung in the concha-decorated California stock saddle as if he were a part of his horse. He was a lithe young figure, dressed in fringed buckskin, touched here and there with the gay colors of the Southwest and of Mexico. Two six-guns, wooden-handled, were suspended from a cartridge belt of carved leather, and hung low on each hip. “Reckon we-all bettah cut south, Blizzahd,” he drawled to his horse. “We haven’t got any business on the Llano.”

By listening we’ll find out where he’s headed next.

Originally published in 1889.