Meanwhile they must walk softly, leaving Aragon still to hug the delusion that he would soon, through his mayordomo, have them in his power—and when the full sixty days of Cruz Mendez's mining permit had expired they could locate the mine again.
But how—and through whom? That was the question that Bud was studying upon when Phil rode up the trail, and in his abstraction he barely returned his gay greeting.
"Well, cheer up, old top!" cried De Lancey, throwing his bridle-reins to the ground and striding up to the tent. "What ho, let down the portcullis, me lord seneschal! And cease your vain repining, Algernon—our papers are all O.K. and the lawyer says to go ahead. But that isn't half the news! Say, we had a dance up at the hotel last night and I met—"
"Yes—sure you did," broke in Bud; "but listen to this!" And he told him of El Tuerto's matrimonial entanglements.
"Why, the crooked devil!" exclaimed De Lancey, leaping up at the finish. "Oyez! Mendez!"
"Don't say a word," warned Bud, springing to the tent door to intercept him, "or you'll put us out of business! It is nothing," he continued in Spanish as Mendez came out of his house, "but put Don Felipe's horse in the corral when he is cool."
"Sí, señor—with great pleasure!" smirked Mendez, running to get the horse, and after he had departed Bud turned back and shook his head.
"We can't afford to quarrel with Mr. Mendez," he said; "because if Aragon ever gets hold of him we're ditched. Jest let everything run on like we'd overlooked something until the sixty days are up—then, if we get away with it, we'll locate the mine ourselves."
"Yes; but how?"
"Well, the's two ways," returned Bud; "either hunt up another Mexican citizen or turn Mexican ourselves."