“I—I see that señor before to-day,” he ventured, hesitating, “He one good man.”
“Where ’d you ever meet up with ’im?” demanded Sandy. “Where ’d he come from?”
“Quién sabe?” Manuel’s shoulders lifted. “It is at Sylvania I see heem,” he added, non-committally, and understanding dawned upon the foreman.
“You did, eh?” he laughed, “An’ he got after you an’ made you quit that spree you was headed on, I bet. That what you come home so quick for? How’d he round you up?”
The Mexican grinned, shamefacedly, and Sandy laughed again.
“He’s sure a sin-buster,” he commented, admiringly, “But he done you a good turn that time, Manuel. The patron’d given me orders to everlastingly fire you next time you showed up after a spree, an’ I’d ’a’ sure done it if you hadn’t ’a’ been on hand that mornin’ same ’s usual!”
Manuel was busy smearing axle-grease on the bronco’s back, to keep the flies from its hurts.
“The señor, he good man all right,” he said, not turning around, and Sandy Larch, being shrewd, walked away without further comment.
CHAPTER IV
As Morgan Anderson had predicted, the condition of Gard’s foot next day was such as to make him a captive. The cattleman, surveying it after Jacinta had given the patient his breakfast, prescribed rest, and forbade any thought of leaving the rancho inside of a week.