He hunted up Diego, and found him putting a deal of gratuitous labor upon the silver trimmings of the new saddle.  Diego being the peon in whose behalf Jack had last winter interfered with Perkins, his gratitude took the form of secret polishings upon the splendid riding-gear, the cleaning of Jack’s boots and such voluntary services.  Now the silver crescents which Teresita ridiculed were winking up at him to show they could grow no brighter, and he was attacking vigorously the “milky way” that rode behind the high cantle.  Diego grinned bashfully when Jack’s shadow flung itself across the saddle and so announced his coming, and stood up and waited humbly before the white senor who had fought for him, a mere peon, born to kicks and cursings rather than to kindness, and so had won the very soul of him.

“Bueno,” praised Jack patronizingly.  “Now I have some real work for you, Diego, and it must be done quickly and well.”

“Gracias, Senor,” murmured Diego, abashed by such favor, and bowed low before his god.

“The riata must be dressed now, Diego, and dressed until it is soft as a silken cord, sinuous as the green snakes that live in the streams, and not one strand must be frayed and weakened.  Sabe?  Too long have I neglected to have it done, and now it must be done in haste—­and done well.  Can you dress it so that it will be the most perfect riata in California, Diego?” A twinkle was in Jack’s eyes, but Diego was too dazzled by the graciousness of his god to see it there.  He made obeisance more humble than before.

“Si, Senor,” he promised breathlessly.  “Never has riata been dressed as this riata shall be.  By the Holy Mother I swear it.”

“Bueno.  For listen!  Much may hang upon the strength and the softness of it.”  He fixed his eyes sternly upon the abject one.  “It may mean my life or my death, Diego.  For in a contest with Don Jose Pacheco will I use it.”

“Si, Senor,” gasped Diego, awed into trembling.  “By my soul I swear—­”

“You needn’t.  Save some of your energy for the rawhide.  You’ll want all you’ve got before you’re through.”  Jack, having made an impression deep enough to satisfy the most exacting of masters, dropped to his natural tone and speech.  “Get some one to help, and come with me to the orchard.”

From the saddle-house he brought the six-strand, rawhide riata which Manuel had bought for him and which his carelessness had left still stiff and unwieldy, and walked slowly into the orchard, examining critically each braided strand as he went.  Manuel, he decided, was right; the riata was perfect.

Diego, trailing two horsehair ropes and carrying a stout, smooth stick of oak that had evidently been used before for the work, came running after Jack as if he were going to put out a fire.  Behind him trotted a big, muscular peon who saw not half the reason for haste that blazoned itself across the soul of Diego.