“They’re riding the last bull,” announced Dade, coming into the room again where Jack was dressing for the supreme test of the day.  “I’ve got your plan for the ground explained to Valencia and Pancho, and Diego’s shining Surry up till you can see your face in him.  You ought to be thankful there’s somebody on the lookout as faithful as that Injun.  I just discovered he hasn’t had a bite to eat since last night, because he wouldn’t leave Surry long enough to get anything.  I hope you’re grateful.”

“I am,” said Jack shortly.  “But I’ve no business to be.  Right now I don’t believe much in the sloppy whine of gratitude or the limber-backed prayer for mercy.  Thankful or not, we get what we get.  Fate hands it out to us; and we may as well take it and keep our mouths shut.”

“That’s the result of cooping yourself in here all day, just thinking and smoking cigarettes,” grumbled Dade, himself worried to the point of nervous petulance.  If he could have taken his own riata and fought also, he would have been much nearer his usual calm, humorous self.

“Say, I told Jose the rules you suggested, and he agreed to every one like a gentleman.  He just came, and Manuel with him leading the horse Jose means to use; a big, black brute with a chest on him like a lion.  His crowd stood on their hind legs and yelled themselves purple when they saw him come riding up.”

“Well, that’s what they’ve come for—­to yell over Jose.”  Jack held three new neckties to the light, trying to choose the one he would wear.

“Say—­” Dade hesitated, looking doubtfully at the other.

“Well?  Say it.”  Jack chose a deep crimson and flung the loop over his head as if he were arraying himself for a ball.

“It may be some advantage to know ...  I’ve watched Jose lasso cattle; he always uses—­”

“Step right there!” Jack swung to face him.  “I don’t want to know how Jose works with his riata.  He don’t know any of my little kinks, don’t you see?  I never,” he added, after a little silence, “started out with the deliberate intention of killing a man, before.  I can’t take any advantage, Dade; you know that, just as well as I do.”  He tried to smile, to soften the rebuff—­and he failed.

Dade went up and laid a contrite hand upon his shoulder.  “You’re a better man than I am, Jack,” he asserted humbly.  “But it’s hell for me to stand back and let you go into this thing alone.  I’ve got piles of confidence in you, old boy—­but Jose never got that medal by saying ‘pretty, please’ and holding out his hand.  The best lassoer in California means something.  And he means to kill you—­”

“If I’ll let him,” put in Jack, stretching his lips in what passed for a grin.

“I know—­but you’ve been off the range for two years, just about; and you’ve had a little over three weeks to make up for that lost practice.”  His eyes caught their two reflections in the glass, and something in Jack’s made him smile ruefully.  “Kick me good,” he advised.  “I need it.  I’ve got nerves worse than any old woman.  I know you’ll come out on top.  You always do.  But—­what’n hell made you say riatas?”