Dade was just finishing the rite of shaving, and thinking the while that he would give all that he possessed, including Surry, if he could whisk Jack and himself to the cool, pine slope in the Sierras where was their mine.  Every day of waiting and gossiping over the duel had but fostered the feeling of antagonism among the men of the valley, and whatever might be the outcome of that encounter, Dade could see no hope of avoiding an open clash between the partisans of the two combatants.  Valencia and Pancho and two or three others of the Picardo vaqueros, who hated Manuel—­and therefore had no love for Jose—­would be more than likely to side with him and Jack, though he honestly wished that they would not; for the more friends they had when the test was made, the greater would be the disturbance, especially since there would be wine for all; and wine never yet served to cool a temper or lull excitement.

Without in the least realizing it, Dade’s face while he shaved wore a scowl quite as pronounced as the one that had called his attention to Jack’s mood.  And, more significant, he had no sooner finished than he looked into his little box of pistol caps to see how many he had left, and inspected the pistol as well; for the law of self-preservation strikes deeper than most emotions, and his life had mostly been lived where men must frequently fight for the right to live; and in such surroundings the fighting instinct wakes at the first hint of antagonism.

“My riata’s gone!” announced Jack breathlessly, bursting into the room at that moment as if he expected to find the thief there.  “I left it on my saddle last night, and now—­”

“And that was a fool thing to do, I must say!” commented Dade, startled into harshness.  He slid the pistol into its holster and buckled the belt around his muscular body with fingers that moved briskly.  “Well, my riata’s no slouch—­you can use it.  You’ve used it before.”

“I don’t want yours.  I’ve got used to my own.  I know to an inch just where it will land—­oh, damn the luck—­It was some of those fellows camped by the orchard, and when I find out which—­”

“Keep your head on, anyway,” advised Dade more equably.  “Your nerves must be pretty well frazzled.  If you let a little thing like this upset you, how do you expect—­”

“It ain’t a little thing!” gritted Jack, loading his pistols hurriedly.  “That six-strand riata has got a different feel, a different weight—­oh, you know it’s going to make all the difference in the world when I get out there with Jose.  Whoever took it knew what it meant, all right!  Some one—­”

“Where’s Surry?” A sudden fear sent Dade hurrying to the door.  “By the Lord Harry, if they’ve hurt Surry—­” He jerked the door open and went out, Jack hard upon his heels.

“I didn’t think of that,” Jack confessed on the way to the stable, and got a look of intense disgust from Dade, which he mitigated somewhat by his next remark.  “Diego was to sleep in the stall last night.”