“And about himself, if he would,” drawled Dade.  “If he ever tells you about the Indian scrape, Don Andres, ask him how he happened to get into the nest.  As to yesterday, perhaps you heard how it came that Jack got so close to the oak!”

“No—­I heard merely of the danger you were in.  Jose’s head vaquero was in town when the Vigilantes returned with their Captain and those others, and there were many rumors.  This morning I sent Valencia to learn the truth, and if you were in danger—­Perhaps I could have done little, but I should have tried to save you,” he added simply.  “I should not like a clash with the gringos—­pardon, Senors; I speak of the class whom you also despise.”

Jose laughed and swept the strings harshly with his thumb.  “The clash will come, Don Andres, whether you like it or not,” he said.  “This morning I saw one more unasked tenant on your meadow, near the grove of alders.  What they call a ‘prairie schooner.’  A big, red-topped hombre, and his woman—­gringos of the class I despise; which includes”—­again he flung his thumb across the guitar string—­“all gringos!”

Jack’s lips opened for hot answer, but Don Andres forestalled him quietly.

“One more tenant does not harm me, Jose.  When the American government puts its seal upon the seal of Spain and restores my land to me, these unasked tenants will go the way they came.  There will be no clash.”  But he sighed even while he made the statement, as if the subject were neither new nor pleasant to dwell upon.

“Why,” demanded Jose bitterly, “should the Americanos presume to question our right to our land?  You and my father made the valley what it is; your shiploads of hides and tallow that you sent from Yerba Buena made the town prosper, and called adventurers this way; and now they steal your cattle and lands, and their government is the biggest thief of all, for it tells them to steal more.  They will make you poor, Don Andres, while you wait for them to be just.  No, I permit no ‘prairie schooner’ to stop, even that their oxen may drink.  My vaqueros ride beside them till they have crossed the boundary.  You, Don Andres, if you would permit your vaqueros to do likewise, instead of shaking hands with the gringos and bidding them welcome—­”

“But I do not permit it; nor do I seek counsel from the children I have tossed on my foot to the tune of a nursery rhyme.”  He shook his white-crowned head reprovingly.  “He was always screaming at his duenna, one child that I recollect,” he smiled.

“Art thou scolding Jose again, my Andres?  He loves to play that thou and Teresita are children still, Jose; it serves to beguile him into forgetting the years upon his head!  Welcome, Senors.  Teresita but told me this moment that you had come.  She is bringing the wine—­”

On their feet they greeted the Senora Picardo.  Like the don, her husband, honest friendliness was in her voice, her smile, the warm clasp of her plump hand.  The sort of woman who will mother you at sight, was the senora.  Purple silk—­hastily put on for the guests, one might suspect—­clothed her royally.  Golden hoops hung from her ears, a diamond brooch held together the lace beneath her cushiony chin; a comfortable woman who smiled much, talked much and worried more lest she leave some little thing undone for those about her.