"And yet—"
"I didn't want to," he ended bluntly. "Didn't want to fight him and didn't want to kill him. Had no call to. And then—well, there was you."
"Ah!" she breathed, and a flush mounted her pale cheeks. She smiled as she reached out once more for the food and Hooker resolved to do his best at gallantry, it seemed to make her so happy.
"So you were thinking of me," she challenged sweetly, "all the while? I thought perhaps I was a nuisance and in the way. I thought perhaps you did not like me because—well, because I'm a Mex, as you say."
"No, ma'am," denied Hooker, gazing upon her admiringly. "Nothing like that! When I say Mex I mean these low, pelado Mexicans—Don Juan tells me you're pure Spanish."
"With perhaps a little Yaqui," she suggested slyly.
"Well, mebbe he did say that, too," confessed Bud. "But it's jest as good as Spanish—they say all the big men in Sonora have got some Yaqui blood—Morral, that was vice-president; the Tornes brothers, governors—"
"And Aragon!" she added playfully, but at a look in his eyes she stopped. Bud could not look pleasant and think of Aragon.
"Ah, yes," she rattled on. "I know! You like the Yaquis better than the Spanish—I saw you shaking hands with that Indian. And what was it you called him—Amigo?"
"That's right," smiled Hooker; "him and me have been friends for months now out at the mine. I'd do anything for that feller."