Gordon did not explain that he had been returned winner in more than one bucking-bronco contest in the days when he rode the range.
He was already sauntering toward the house.
From a side porch Pedro, awaiting the arrival of a rig to take him back to the ranch, sat with his bruised leg on a chair and watched the approach of the stalwart figure that came as lightly as though it trod on eggs. He had hobbled here and watched the other do easily what had been beyond him.
His heart was bitter with the sense of defeat, none the less because this man whom he had lately tried to kill had just saved his life.
"Como?" asked Dick, stopping in front of him to brush dust from his trousers with a pocket-handkerchief.
Pedro mumbled something. Under his olive skin the color burned. Tears of mortification were in his eyes.
"You saved my life, señor. Take it. It is yours," the boy cried.
"What shall I do with it?"
"I care not. Make an end of it, as on Tuesday I tried to make an end of yours," cried the lad wildly.
Gordon took off his hat and looked at the bullet holes casually.