“Ah, Valencia,” he said, rising as if the interruption was to put an end to his lingering there, “you also seem to have ridden in haste from the rodeo.  Truly, I think that same rodeo has been but the breeding-ground of gossip and ill-feeling, and is like to bear bitter fruit.  Well, you have a message, I’ll warrant.  What is it?”

Valencia’s mien was respectful almost to the point of humility.  “The majordomo sent me with a letter, which I was to deliver into the hands of the Senor Allen,” he said simply.  “My hope was that I might arrive before Manuel”—­he caught a flicker of wrath in the eyes of the don at the name and smiled inwardly—­“but the moonlight played tricks upon the trail, and my caballo tripped upon a willow-branch and fell upon his head so that his neck was twisted.  I was forced to walk and carry the saddle, and there were times when the cattle interrupted with their foolish curiosity, and I must stop and set the riata hissing to frighten them back, else they would perchance have trampled me.  So I fear that I arrive too late, Don Andres.  But truly I did my best; a full hour behind Manuel I started, and have walked ten miles of the sixty.  The saints know well—­”

Don Andres checked his apologies with a wave of the hand, and sat down somewhat heavily in his favorite chair, as if he were tired, though the day was but fairly begun.

“We do not doubt your zeal,” he observed dryly.  “Give the letter to the senor and begone to your breakfast.  And,” he added impressively, “wait you and rest well until the answer is ready; for perchance there will be further need to test the kindness of the saints—­and the speed of a horse.”

Valencia fumbled within his sash and brought forth the small, folded square of paper, went up two steps and placed it in Jack’s upturned palm, gave Jack also a glance more kindly and loyal than ever he had received from that minx, Teresita, and went away to the vaqueros’ quarters.  Valencia had learned nothing from the meeting, except that the don was in one of his rare fits of ill-temper.

“Yet I know that there will be a duelo,” he comforted himself with thinking, as he limped wearily across the patio.  “The face of the patron is black because of it, and a little devil-flame burns in the eyes of the senorita because for love of her men would fight—­(Such is the way of women, to joy in those things which should give them, fear!)—­and the senora’s face is sagged with worry, and Senor Jack—­ah, there is the fighting look in those eyes!  Never have I seen them so dark:  like the bay when a storm is riding upon the wind.  And it will be riatas—­for so Manuel told me.  Me, I will wager my saddle upon the Senor Jack, even though riatas be the weapons.  For he is wily, that blue-eyed one; never would he choose the rawhide unless he knew its hiss as he knows his own heartbeats.  Let it be riatas, then, if so the senor chooses!”

CHAPTER XVII