“Senor,”—­it was Jose, his neck wrapped in a white handkerchief, coming forward from where he had sat with Don Andres—­“Senor, I am sorry that I did not kill you; but yet I admire your skill, and I wish to thank you for your generosity; the medalla is not mine, even though you refuse it.  Since I have found one better than I, Don Andres shall keep the medalla until I or some other caballero has won it fairly.  For my life, which you also refused to take, I—­cannot thank you.”

Jack looked at him intently.  “You will thank me,” he said grimly, “later on.”

Jose’s face went white.  “Senor, you do not mean—­”

“I do mean—­just that.”

“But, Senor—­” There are times when pride drops away from the proudest man and leaves him weak to the very core of him; weak and humbled beyond words.

Big Jerry Simpson saved that situation from becoming intolerable.  With Moll’s great ears flopping solemnly to herald his approach, Jerry rode up, perfectly aware that he brought a murmur of curiosity from those who saw his coming.

For Jerry was leading Manuel by the ear; Manuel with his hands tied behind him with Jerry’s red bandanna; Manuel with his lips drawn away from his teeth in the desire to kill, and his eyes sullen with the impotence of that desire.

“Sa-ay,” drawled Jerry, when he came up to the little group, “what d’ye want done with this here greaser that fired on Jack?  Some of the fellers over there wanted to take him out and hang him, but I kinda hated to draw attention away from Jack’s p’formance—­which was right interesting.  Bill Wilson, he reckoned I better fetch him over here and ask you fellers about it; Bill says this mob of greasers might make a fuss if the agony’s piled on too thick, but whatever you say will be did.”  With his unoccupied hand he helped himself to a generous chew of tobacco, and spat gravely into the dust.

“Fer as I’m concerned,” he drawled lazily, “I’m willin’ to help string him up.  He done as dirty a trick as ever I seen, and he done it deliberate.  I had m’ eye peeled fer him all the time, and I seen he wasn’t goin’ to stand back and let Jack git the best of that greaser if he could help it.  He was cunnin’—­but shucks!  I see all along why he kept that gun p’inted out front—­”

“Turn him loose,” said Dade suddenly, interrupting him.  “We don’t want to start any trouble, Jerry.  He may need hanging, but we can’t afford to give him what he deserves.  It’s a ticklish crowd, right now; they’ve lost a lot on the duel, and they’ve drunk enough wine to swim a mule.  Turn him loose.  I mean it,” he added, when he caught the incipient rebellion in Jerry’s weather-beaten face.  “I’m bossing things here to-day.  He didn’t hit anybody, and I’m beginning to think we can get through the day without any real trouble, if we go easy.”

“Wa-al—­” Jerry scratched his stubbly jaw reflectively with his free hand, and looked down at his captive.  “I’ll give him a derned good wallopin’, then, just to learn him manners.  I’ve been wantin’ to lick him since yesterday mornin’ when he tried to drive off Bawley and Lay-fayette and William Penn.  I lost two hours off’n my work, argyin’ with him.  I’ll take that outa his hide, right now.”