Certainly this could not be the horse she had been advised to see and she was about to pass on when she felt eyes watching her from the steep shadow of the shed which bordered the corral.  Then she made out a dapper olive-skinned fellow sitting with his back against the wall in such a position of complete relaxation as only a Mexican is capable of assuming.  He wore a short tuft of black moustache cut well away from the edge of the red lip, a moustache which oddly accentuated his youth.  In body and features he was of that feminine delicacy which your large-handed Saxon dislikes, and though Marianne was by no means a stalwart, she detested the man at once.  For that reason, being a lady to the tips of her slim fingers, her smile was more cordial than necessary.

“I am looking for Manuel Cordova,” she said.

“Me,” replied the Mexican, and managed to speak without removing the cigarette.

“I’m glad to know you.” she answered.  “I am Marianne Jordan.”

At this, Manuel Cordova removed his cigarette, regardless of the ashes which tumbled straightway down the bell-mouthed sleeve of his jacket; for a Mexican deems it highly indecorous to pay the slightest heed to his tobacco ashes.  Whether they land on chin or waistcoat they are allowed to remain until the wind carries them away.

“The pleasure is to me,” said Cordova melodiously, and made painful preparations to rise.

She gathered at once that the effort would spoil his morning and urged him to remain where he was, at which he smiled with the care of a movie star, presenting an even, white line of teeth.

Marianne went on:  “Let me explain.  I’ve come to the Glosterville fair to buy some brood mares for my ranch and of course the ones I want are the Coles horses.  You’ve seen them?”

He nodded.

“But those horses,” she continued, checking off her points, “will not be offered for sale until after the race this afternoon.  They’re all entered and they are sure to win.  There’s nothing to touch them and when they breeze across the finish I imagine every ranch owner present will want to bid for them.  That would put them above my reach and I can only pray that the miracle will happen—­a horse may turn up to beat them.  I made inquiries and I was told that the best prospect was Manuel Cordova’s Alcatraz.  So I’ve come with high hopes, Senor Cordova, and I’ll appreciate it greatly if you’ll let me see your champion.”

“Look till the heart is content, senorita,” replied the Mexican, and he extended a slim, lazy hand towards the drowsing stallion.

“But,” cried the girl, “I was told of a real runner—­”

She squinted critically at the faded chestnut.  She had been told of a four-year-old while this gaunt animal looked fifteen at least.  However, it is one thing to catch a general impression and another to read points.  Marianne took heed, now, of the long slope of the shoulders, the short back, the well-let-down hocks.  After all, underfeeding would dull the eye and give the ragged, lifeless coat.