Down the valley they rode, gathering numbers to swell the cavalcade at each ranch they passed.  La Laguna Seca, San Vincente, Las Uvas sent their quota of vaqueros, each headed by a majordomo and accompanied by embaladors with the camp equipment and supplies packed upon steady-going little mustangs.  The bell-mares of the various herds jangled a chorus of pleasant discords with their little, iron bells.  The scent of the mustard rose pungently under the trampling hoofs.  At dusk, the camp-fires blinked at one another through the purpling shadows; and the vaqueros, stretched lazily upon their saddle blankets in the glow, stilled the night noises beneath the pleasant murmur of their voices while they talked.  From the camp of the San Vincente riders rose a voice beautifully clear and sweet, above the subdued clamor.

Dade was listening to the song and dreaming a little while he listened, with his head lying cradled in his clasped hands and his face to the stars, when the group around the next camp-fire tittered and broke into an occasional laugh.  Then a question was called to whoever might be within hearing: 

“Who’s the best vaquero in California?”

“Jack Allen, the gringo!” shouted a dozen voices, so that every camp must hear.  Then came jeering laughter from every camp save one, the camp of the Picardo vaqueros.

Valencia’s dark head lifted from the red and green blanket beyond the blaze; and Dade, watching, could see his profile sharply defined in the yellow light of the fire, as he stared toward the offending camp.  The lips that smiled so often were drawn tight and thin; the nostrils flared like a frightened horse.  While the laughs were still cackling derision, Valencia jumped up and ran; and Dade, even before he sat up to look, knew where he was going.

At the fire where the question was put, a young fellow, whose heavy, black mustache prudently hid lips coarse and sneering, came to his feet like a dummy of a man and glared dazedly at his companions, as if their faces should tell him whose hand it was that gripped the braided collar of his jacket.  He was not long in doubt, however.  The voice of Valencia grated vitriolic sentences in his ear, and the free hand of Valencia was lifted to deal him a blow fair upon the blank face of him.  The circle of faces watched, motionless, above crouched bodies as quiet as the stars overhead.

A hand grasped Valencia’s wrist while his arm was lifted to strike, so that the three men stood, taut-muscled and still, like a shadowy, sculptured group that pictured some mythological conflict.

“Let go, Valencia.  This is nothing to fight over.  Let go.”

Valencia’s angry eyes questioned the unreadable ones of his majordomo; but he did not let go, and so the three stood for a moment longer.

“But they insult the Senor Allen with their jeers,” he protested.  “Me, I fight always for my friends who are not present to fight for themselves.  Would not the Senor Allen fight this fool who flouts him so?”