said something to the Don.  I wonder what.  I’ll gamble it was something to get the Don’s outfit all close together.  Sure!  Greasers have no sense.  But them white guerrillas, they’re lookin’ some dubious.  Whatever’s comin’ off will come soon, you can bet.  I wish I was down there.  But maybe it won’t come to a scrap.  Stewart’s set on avoidin’ that.  He’s a wonderful chap to get his way.  Lord, though, I’d like to see him go after that overbearin’ Greaser!  See! the Don can’t stand prosperity.  All this strange behavior of cowboys is beyond his pulque-soaked brains.  Then he’s a Greaser.  If Gene doesn’t knock him on the head presently he’ll begin to get over his scare, even of Nels and Monty.  But Gene’ll pick out the right time.  And I’m gettin’ nervous.  I want somethin’ to start.  Never saw Nels in but one fight, then he just shot a Greaser’s arm off for tryin’ to draw on him.  But I’ve heard all about him.  And Monty!  Monty’s the real old-fashioned gun-man.  Why, none of them stories, them lies he told to entertain the Englishman, was a marker to what Monty has done.  What I don’t understand is how Monty keeps so quiet and easy and peaceful-like.  That’s not his way, with such an outfit lookin’ for trouble.  O-ha!  Now for the grand bluff.  Looks like no fight at all!”

The guerrilla leader had ceased his restless steps and glances, and turned to Stewart with something of bold resolution in his aspect.

“Gracias, senor,” he said.  “Adios.”  He swept his sombrero in the direction of the trail leading down the mountain to the ranch; and as he completed the gesture a smile, crafty and jeering, crossed his swarthy face.

Ambrose whispered so low that Madeline scarcely heard him.  “If the Greaser goes that way he’ll find our horses and get wise to the trick.  Oh, he’s wise now!  But I’ll gamble he never even starts on that trail.”

Neither hurriedly nor guardedly Stewart rose out of his leaning posture and took a couple of long strides toward Don Carlos.

“Go back the way you came,” he fairly yelled; and his voice had the ring of a bugle.

Ambrose nudged Madeline; his whisper was tense and rapid:  “Don’t miss nothin’.  Gene’s called him.  Whatever’s comin’ off will be here quick as lightnin’.  See!  I guess maybe that Greaser don’t savvy good U. S. lingo.  Look at that dirty yaller face turn green.  Put one eye on Nels and Monty!  That’s great—­just to see ’em.  Just as quiet and easy.  But oh, the difference!  Bent and stiff—­that means every muscle is like a rawhide riata.  They’re watchin’ with eyes that can see the workin’s of them Greasers’ minds.  Now there ain’t a hoss-hair between them Greasers and hell!”

Don Carlos gave Stewart one long malignant stare; then he threw back his head, swept up the sombrero, and his evil smile showed gleaming teeth.

“Senor—­” he began.