Don Carlos got up to confront Stewart.  The prostrate vaquero stirred and moaned, but did not rise.

“You needn’t jibber Spanish to me,” said Stewart.  “You can talk American, and you can understand American.  If you start a rough-house here you and your Greasers will be cleaned up.  You’ve got to leave this ranch.  You can have the stock, the packs and traps in the second corral.  There’s grub, too.  Saddle up and hit the trail.  Don Carlos, I’m dealing more than square with you.  You’re lying about these boxes of guns and cartridges.  You’re breaking the laws of my country, and you’re doing it on property in my charge.  If I let smuggling go on here I’d be implicated myself.  Now you get off the range.  If you don’t I’ll have the United States cavalry here in six hours, and you can gamble they’ll get what my cowboys leave of you.”

Don Carlos was either a capital actor and gratefully relieved at Stewart’s leniency or else he was thoroughly cowed by references to the troops.  “Si, Senor!  Gracias, Senor!” he exclaimed; and then, turning away, he called to his men.  They hurried after him, while the fallen vaquero got to his feet with Stewart’s help and staggered across the courtyard.  In a moment they were gone, leaving Hawe and his several comrades behind.

Hawe was spitefully ejecting a wad of tobacco from his mouth and swearing in an undertone about “white-livered Greasers.”  He cocked his red eye speculatively at Stewart.

“Wal, I reckon as you’re so hell-bent on doin’ it up brown thet you’ll try to fire me off’n the range, too?”

“If I ever do, Pat, you’ll need to be carried off,” replied Stewart.  “Just now I’m politely inviting you and your deputy sheriffs to leave.”

“We’ll go; but we’re comin’ back one of these days, an’ when we do we’ll put you in irons.”

“Hawe, if you’ve got it in that bad for me, come over here in the corral and let’s fight it out.”

“I’m an officer, an’ I don’t fight outlaws an’ sich except when I hev to make arrests.”

“Officer!  You’re a disgrace to the county.  If you ever did get irons on me you’d take me some place out of sight, shoot me, and then swear you killed me in self-defense.  It wouldn’t be the first time you pulled that trick, Pat Hawe.”

“Ho, ho!” laughed Hawe, derisively.  Then he started toward the horses.

Stewart’s long arm shot out, his hand clapped on Hawe’s shoulder, spinning him round like a top.

“You’re leaving, Pat, but before you leave you’ll come out with your play or you’ll crawl,” said Stewart.  “You’ve got it in for me, man to man.  Speak up now and prove you’re not the cowardly skunk I’ve always thought you.  I’ve called your hand.”

Pat Hawe’s face turned a blackish-purple hue.

“You can jest bet thet I’ve got it in fer you,” he shouted, hoarsely.  “You’re only a low-down cow-puncher.  You never hed a dollar or a decent job till you was mixed up with thet Hammond woman—­”