"It ain't my fault, Angela," the foreman assured her. "I didn't know he was going to do this! You know that."
Lopez issued his ultimatum.
"I am not going to force you to marry 'im. You are going to choose to marry 'im."
The girl was on the brink of despair.
"Never! Never! Never!" she screamed, and stamped her foot vigorously.
"Ah! my young lady. We shall see." He turned abruptly, and called, "Pedro!"
"Si," the faithful one answered, and came to his master.
Lopez then addressed Angela: "I shall not force you to marry 'im," indicating "Red" with a wave of the hand. "I shall insist only zat if you do not marry wiz 'im, you shall marry wiz Pedro."
Directly behind the girl stood the fearful Pedro. His face was the dirtiest that had ever crossed the border into Arizona. His teeth were sparse, his hair a tangled mass of grit and dirt; his hands like violent mud-pies. The suit he wore was stained and greasy—he had slept in it for many nights. Altogether, he was about the most hopeless-looking individual a girl could be asked to look upon. At his master's words, he grinned a fiendishly happy grin, spread out his arms as if to embrace the charming Angela, and, if possible, press a kiss upon her rosy cheek. But Angela, with one look at him, collapsed into "Red's" waiting arms. He seemed like heaven to her now.