“Truly, Jose will be disappointed when he does not see Senor Jack amongst us,” smiled Valencia, reining in beside Dade and looking after the departing horseman with friendly eyes.  “Though if he had good sense, he would be thankful.  Me, I should not like to have trouble with that friend of yours, Senor.  In San Francisco they talk yet of that day when he fired three times from a galloping horse and killed three men.  Dios!  That was pretty shooting.  I would have given much to see it.  There will be few men so bold now as to make war with that blue-eyed hombre; but Jose is a fool, when his will is crossed.  Me, I fight—­yes, and love the heat of fighting in my blood; but I do not bellow threats before, as Jose has been doing.  Carramba!  To hear him, one would think he believed that men may die of curses; if they did, the Senor Jack would be lying now with candles burning at his head and his feet!  Truly, love takes the sense out of a man quicker than wine.”

Dade agreed with him, though his lips did not open to form any words upon the subject.

Their first stopping place was Jose’s ranch down near Santa Clara, and he wondered just how far Jose’s hatred of him would interfere with the traditions of hospitality.  It was not likely that Jose’s vaqueros would be ready to start that day; and although he carried his own camp equipment on pack-horses, and, guided by Valencia, ordered the camp set up in its accustomed place beside a little stream half a mile from the house, he sent many a questioning glance that way.

If he feared a hostile reception, he was soon reassured.  Jose and Manuel speedily appeared, galloping side-by-side through the lush yellow and green.  Jose’s manner was irreproachable, his speech carefully considered.  If his eyes lacked their usual warm glow of friendliness, it was because he could not bring that look at will to beam upon the guest whom his heart failed to welcome.  He invited Dade to dinner with him; and Dade, hoping to establish a better understanding between them, accepted.

Dade had not lived half his life amongst the dark-skinned race for nothing.  He sipped the home-made wine with Jose, talked of many things in his soft, easy-natured drawl, and by letting his inner friendliness with the whole world look out of his eyes when they dwelt upon his host, went Jose one better in courtesy.  And Jose, sauntering afterward across the patio to the porch, met Manuel face to face and paid tribute to Don Andres’ new majordomo in a single sentence.

“If all gringos were like this Senor Hunter, one could tolerate their coming to live amongst us,” he said frankly.

“Si,” grudged Manuel.  “But then, he is not all gringo.  Many years he dwelt with our people in Texas, so that he has the Spanish ways; but me, I want none of him.”

Jose laughed without much mirth to lighten the sound.  “The blue-eyed one—­did you find from the vaqueros why he did not come?  He need not have been afraid of me—­not if his fame was earned honestly.”  If his tone were patronizing, Jose perhaps had some excuse, since Fame had not altogether passed him by with face averted.