"Ready, señor?" shouted Pietro.
Dudley nodded as he watched the bolas. The leaden balls made a dark and continuous circle about the head of the gaucho, while the hum even could be heard. Then of a sudden the circle disappeared, and the leaden balls, with their long serpent of hide, came shooting out towards the well. The sun, standing moderately high in the heavens behind, shone on the white pith ball, making it a splendid mark. In two seconds it had covered half the distance between the thrower and the tree, but still Dudley nursed the barrel of his weapon, while the gauchos kept their eyes fixed on the pith ball. Another second and the pith flew opposite Dudley, its pace already retarded. Giono, who watched him like a cat, saw the young Englishman lift his weapon like a flash, and, without pausing to look along the sights, pull the trigger firmly. He gave a howl of delight, a howl which set the echoes ringing and brought Mr. Blunt to the door of the house. For it seemed that the shot had missed. They heard its scream as it buzzed through the air, and they still saw the pith ball. But all but Giono had noted a curious fact. A chip of white had started from the ball, and for an instant only the course of the ball had been deflected; then it flew on as before for some few yards, when it burst asunder and dropped in small pieces to the ground, leaving its own particular thong to go on without it.
It was Dudley's turn to shout, his and those who supported him, and it might be truly said that all the gauchos present, save Giono alone, were in his favor. He swept his hat from his head, pocketed his weapon, and turned to his opponent, while the air rang with the shouts of the gauchos.
"Your shot, señor," he said. "Three are allowed. I have made mine, and have struck the object. Attempt the same yourself."
He was beaten. Giono knew well that the young Englishman had the better of the argument, and at the thought his sallow face went red with anger. He strode to the front, shouted to Pietro to make ready, and swept his weapon from his pocket, where he had placed it while Dudley fired. Then some idea seemed to strike him. He turned upon the group with a snarl, a snarl which quieted their shouts, and strode back towards Dudley with a lowering look on his face.
"You say one shot is enough for you," he growled. "It would be, if you were honest. But we all know that Pietro is your firm friend. What is easier than for him to have broken the ball? He crushed it with his hand, and it was that which caused the pith to break asunder. It is an arrangement between you. You are attempting to rob me!"
The man was impossible. He was one of those pugnacious individuals who must always quarrel. In addition, unknown to Dudley, he was one of the browbeating kind, accustomed to have his own way whatever happened. He was defeated hopelessly, he told himself, and there was only one course to pursue. He must accuse his opponent of cheating and turn his weapon on him, a common enough occurrence in those wild and lawless parts.
"Yes, it was arranged," he shouted. "You and Pietro agreed to cheat."
The man's finger played with his trigger, he scowled round at the gauchos, hesitated a moment, and then deliberately lifted his weapon; but he never got it to Dudley's head.
"You will please to lower your arm," suddenly commanded a stern voice, and, swinging round, Dudley found Mr. Blunt some five paces away, his revolver covering the gaucho. "Drop it, man; drop it instantly, if you don't desire to have a hole through your head. Good! You are a scoundrel, and I have known it for some time. Why I have allowed you to stay I cannot imagine. You are a ruffian, I repeat, and if I shot you down all would thank me. Go, take your horse and ride. If you are found within the bounds of the rancho when the sun sets I will hang you without hesitation. And listen! Let this little affair teach you a lesson. A lad is sometimes smarter than a ruffian."