“Sit you down, Senor, while I think a moment,” he urged.  “Surely it can be arranged without hurt to the fair name of—­of any.  Riatas—­ah, now I have it, Senor!  Dullard, not to have thought of it at once!  Truly must I be in my dotage!” He did not mean that, of course, and he was quite openly pleased when Jack smiled and shook his head.

“Listen, Senor, and tell me if the plan is not a good one!  To-morrow Valencia shall ride back to the rodeo, with a message to all from me, Don Andres Picardo.  I shall proclaim a fiesta, Senor—­such a fiesta as even Monterey never rivaled in the good old days when we were subject to his Majesty, the King.  A fiesta we shall have, as soon as may be after the rodeo is over.  There will be sports such as you Americanos know nothing of, Senor.  And there openly, before all the people, you shall contest with Jose for a prize which I shall give, and for the medalla oro if you will; for you shall have the privilege of challenging Jose, the champion, to contest for the medalla.  And there will be a prize—­and I doubt not—­” He was thinking that there would probably be two prizes, though only one which he could proclaim publicly.

“Myself, I shall write to Jose and beg him to consider the honor of his father’s name and of the name of his father’s friend, and consent that the duelo shall take place under the guise of sport.  It must not be to the death, Senor.  Myself, I shall insist that it shall not be to the death.  Before all the people, and women, and ninos—­and besides, I do not wish that Jose should—­” There again he checked himself, and Jack’s lips twitched at the meaning he read into the break.

“But if there should be an accident?” Jack’s eyes probed for the soul of the old man; the real soul of the Spanish grandee under the broad-minded, easy-natured, Californian gentleman.  He probed, and he thought he found what he was seeking; he thought it showed for just an instant in his eyes and in the upward lift of his white mustache.

“An accident would be deplorable, Senor,” he said.  “We will hope that there will be no accident.  Still, Jose is a very devil when the riata is hissing over his head, and he rides recklessly.  Senor, permit me to warn you that Jose is a demon in the saddle.  Not for nothing does he hold the medalla oro.”

“Gracias, Don Andres.  I shall remember,” said Jack, and walked away to the stables.

He felt that the heart of Don Andres Picardo was warring with his intelligence.  That although his wide outlook and his tolerance would make friends of the gringos and of the new government—­and quite sincerely—­still, the heart of him was true Spanish; and the fortunes of his own blood-kin would send it beating fast or slow in sympathy, while his brain weighed nicely the ethics of the struggle.  Jack was not much given to analyzing the inner workings of a man’s mind and heart, but he carried with him a conviction that it was so.