"Myself, I shall write to José and beg him to consider the honor of his father's name and of the name of his father's friend, and consent that the duelo shall take place under the guise of sport. It must not be to the death, Señor. Myself, I shall insist that it shall not be to the death. Before all the people, and women, and niños—and besides, I do not wish that José should—" There again he checked himself, and Jack's lips twitched at the meaning he read into the break.
"But if there should be an accident?" Jack's eyes probed for the soul of the old man; the real soul of the Spanish grandee under the broad-minded, easy-natured, Californian gentleman. He probed, and he thought he found what he was seeking; he thought it showed for just an instant in his eyes and in the upward lift of his white mustache.
"An accident would be deplorable, Señor," he said. "We will hope that there will be no accident. Still, José is a very devil when the riata is hissing over his head, and he rides recklessly. Señor, permit me to warn you that José is a demon in the saddle. Not for nothing does he hold the medalla oro."
"Gracias, Don Andres. I shall remember," said Jack, and walked away to the stables.
He felt that the heart of Don Andres Picardo was warring with his intelligence. That although his wide outlook and his tolerance would make friends of the gringos and of the new government—and quite sincerely—still, the heart of him was true Spanish; and the fortunes of his own blood-kin would send it beating fast or slow in sympathy, while his brain weighed nicely the ethics of the struggle. Jack was not much given to analyzing the inner workings of a man's mind and heart, but he carried with him a conviction that it was so.
He hunted up Diego, and found him putting a deal of gratuitous labor upon the silver trimmings of the new saddle. Diego being the peon in whose behalf Jack had last winter interfered with Perkins, his gratitude took the form of secret polishings upon the splendid riding-gear, the cleaning of Jack's boots and such voluntary services. Now the silver crescents which Teresita ridiculed were winking up at him to show they could grow no brighter, and he was attacking vigorously the "milky way" that rode behind the high cantle. Diego grinned bashfully when Jack's shadow flung itself across the saddle and so announced his coming, and stood up and waited humbly before the white señor who had fought for him, a mere peon, born to kicks and cursings rather than to kindness, and so had won the very soul of him.
"Bueno," praised Jack patronizingly. "Now I have some real work for you, Diego, and it must be done quickly and well."
"Gracias, Señor," murmured Diego, abashed by such favor, and bowed low before his god.
"The riata must be dressed now, Diego, and dressed until it is soft as a silken cord, sinuous as the green snakes that live in the streams, and not one strand must be frayed and weakened. Sabe? Too long have I neglected to have it done, and now it must be done in haste—and done well. Can you dress it so that it will be the most perfect riata in California, Diego?" A twinkle was in Jack's eyes, but Diego was too dazzled by the graciousness of his god to see it there. He made obeisance more humble than before.
"Sí, Señor," he promised breathlessly. "Never has riata been dressed as this riata shall be. By the Holy Mother I swear it."