“A six-strand, eh?  I could tell Manuel a few things about riatas, if he calls that the best!  Four strands are stronger than six, any time.  I’ve seen too many stranded—­”

“The senor is not pleased with the riata?”

Manuel, following Don Andres across to the veranda, had caught the gesture and tone; and while his knowledge of English was extremely sketchy, he knew six and four when he heard those numerals mentioned, and the rest was easy guessing.

“The four strands are good, but the six are better—­when Joaquin Murieta lays the strands.  From the hide of a very old bull was this riata cut; perhaps the senor is aware that the hide is thus of the same thickness throughout and strong as the bull that grew it.  Not one strand is laid tighter than the other strand; the wildest bull in the valley could not break it—­if the senor should please to catch him!  Me, I could have bought three riatas for the gold I gave for this one; but the senor told me to get the best.”  His shoulders went up an inch, though Don Andres was frowning at the tone of him.  “The senor can return it to the Mission and get the three, or he can exchange it with any vaquero in the valley for one which has four strands.  I am very sorry that the senor is not pleased with my choice.”

“You needn’t be sorry.  It’s a very pretty riata, and I have no doubt it will do all I ask of it.  The saddle’s a beauty, and the bridle and spurs—­I’m a thousand times obliged.”

“It is nothing and less than nothing,” disclaimed Manuel once more; and went in to ask the senora for a most palatable decoction whose chief ingredient was blackberry wine, which the senora recommended to all and sundry for various ailments.  Though Manuel, the deceitful one, had no ailment, he did have a keen appreciation of the flavour of the cordial, and his medicine bottle was never long empty—­or full—­if he could help it.

A moment later Jack, hearing a human, feminine twitter from the direction of the rose garden, left off examining pridefully his belongings, and bolted without apology, after his usual headlong fashion.

Don Andres sat him down in an easy-chair in the sun, and sighed as he did so.  “He is hot-tempered, that vaquero,” he said regretfully, his mind upon Manuel.  “Something has stirred his blood; surely your friend has done nothing to offend him?”

“Nothing except remark that he has always liked a four-strand riata better than six.  At the hut he was friendly enough.”

“He is not the only one whose anger is easily stirred against the gringos,” remarked the don, reaching mechanically for his tobacco pouch, while he watched Dade absently examining the new riata.

“Senor Hunter,” Don Andres began suddenly, “have you decided what you will do?  Your mine in the mountains—­it will be foolish to return there while the hands of the Vigilantes are reaching out to clutch you; do you not think so?  More of the tale I have heard from Valencia, who returned with Manuel.  Those men who died at the hand of your friend—­and died justly, I am convinced—­had friends who would give much for close sight of you both.”