Well, supposing Jose was beaten; suppose Jack won!  What then?  Dade blew a mouthful of smoke towards the camp-fire, deserted except for himself, while his vaqueros disported themselves with their neighbors, and shook his head.  He had a little imagination; perhaps he had more than most men of his type.  He could see a glorious row, if Jose were beaten.  It would, on the whole, be more disastrous than if he won.

“And she’s just fickle-minded enough to turn up her nose at Jack if he got beat,” Dade grumbled, thinking of a certain senorita.  “And if he don’t, the whole bunch will pile onto us.  Looks to me like a worse combination than that Vigilance row, for Jack.  If he wins, he gets knifed; if he don’t, he gets hell.  And me the only one to back him up!  I’ll wish I was about forty men seven foot high and armed with—­”

“Pardon, Senor.  The senor has of course heard the news?” Jose came out of the shadows and stood with the firelight dancing on his face and picking out the glittery places on his jacket, where was the braid.  “I have a letter from Don Andres.  Would the senor care to read it?  No?  The senor is welcome to read.  I have no wish to keep anything hidden which concerns this matter.  I have brought the letter, and I want to say that the wishes of my friend, Don Andres, shall be granted.  Except,” he added, coming closer, “that I shall fight to the death.  I wish the Senor Allen to understand this, though it must he held a secret between us three.  An accident it must appear to those who watch, because the duelo will be proclaimed a sport; but to the death I will fight, and I trust that the Senor Allen will fight as I fight.  Does the senor understand?”

“Yes, but I can’t promise anything for Jack.”  Dade studied Jose quietly through the smoke of his cigarette.  “Jack will fight to please himself, and nobody can tell how that will be, except that it won’t be tricky.  He may want to kill you, and he may not.  I don’t know.  If he does, he’ll try his damnedest, you can bank on that.”

“But you, Senor—­do you not see that to fight for a prize merely is to belittle—­” Jose waved a hand eloquently.

“I see you’re taking life pretty serious,” Dade retorted, moving farther along the log.  “Sit down, Jose, and be sociable.  Nothing like seeing the point of a joke, if there is one.  Do you reckon anything’s worth all the heart-burnings you’re indulging in?  Some things are tough; I’ve waded kinda deep, myself, so I know.  But there’s nothing you can’t get over, with time and lots of common sense, except being a sneak—­and being dead.  To me, one’s as bad as the other, with maybe first choice on death.  You aren’t a sneak, and I don’t see why you hanker to be dead.  What do you want to fight to the death for?”

[Illustration:  “An accident it must appear to those who watch”]