"I want the wind-mill put up beside the reservoir, like the one at the house. I'll get the boys at work next week; but you can go on with the mill work before then. I am going over to Hot Springs for a few days."
"How long did you live in Mexico, Señor?" asked Loco.
"I have never been there," answered Traynor, wondering at the question.
"Only Americanos who have lived in Mexico speak as you do," persisted Loco.
"I learned Spanish at college," replied Traynor. "By Jove! What a shot! It's too far for a pistol!"
He was gazing up at a magnificent blacktail deer which stood like a statue on a ledge six hundred feet above them. Its head was thrown back, nostrils dilated, the slender legs were tense and ready for flight as it sniffed the wind. Then with a snort, it whirled and vanished.
Traynor had been so absorbed in admiration of the buck that he had momentarily forgotten Loco's presence. The Mexican, fifteen feet in the rear of Traynor had untied the riata which hung on his saddle and coiled it cautiously, watching the other man sharply. With a swift movement he flung the rope about Traynor's body, pinioning his arms firmly. Chinati, feeling the jerk on his bridle, leaped forward and Traynor fell helpless to the ground.
The sun was setting when Traynor again became conscious of his surroundings and saw Loco standing over him.
"What happened, Loco?" he asked stupidly. "Was I thrown?"
Loco made no reply, and as Traynor still dazed from a deep gash on his head, tried to rise, he realized that he was securely bound, hand and foot. The loss of blood made him faint and sick, and his brain seemed incapable of lucid ideas. He had struck his head on a sharp rock in falling from his horse.