“You say just now we shall speak as business men.  I say no, Don Marco; I will not.  I shall speak, we shall speak, as gentlemen.”

“Go on,” said Poindexter, who was beginning to be amused.

“I say just now I will not purchase the rancho from the Senora.  And why?  Look you, Don Marco;” he reined in his horse, thrust his hand under his serape, and drew out a folded document:  “this is why.”

With a smile, Poindexter took the paper from his hand and opened it.  But the smile faded from his lips as he read.  With blazing eyes he spurred his horse beside the Spaniard, almost unseating him, and said sternly, “What does this mean?”

“What does it mean?” repeated Don Jose, with equally flashing eyes; “I’ll tell you.  It means that your client, this man Spencer Tucker, is a Judas, a traitor!  It means that he gave Los Cuervos to his mistress a year ago, and that she sold it to me—­to me, you hear!—­me, Jose Santierra, the day before she left!  It means that the coyote of a Spencer, the thief, who bought these lands of a thief and gave them to a thief, has tricked you all.  Look,” he said, rising in his saddle, holding the paper like a baton, and defining with a sweep of his arm the whole level plain, “all these lands were once mine, they are mine again to-day.  Do I want to purchase Los Cuervos? you ask, for you will speak of the business.  Well, listen.  I have purchased Los Cuervos, and here is the deed.”

“But it has never been recorded,” said Poindexter, with a carelessness he was far from feeling.

“Of a verity, no.  Do you wish that I should record it?” asked Don Jose, with a return of his simple gravity.

Poindexter bit his lip.  “You said we were to talk like gentlemen,” he returned.  “Do you think you have come into possession of this alleged deed like a gentleman?”

Don Jose shrugged his shoulders, “I found it tossed in the lap of a harlot.  I bought it for a song.  Eh, what would you?”

“Would you sell it again for a song?” asked Poindexter.

“Ah! what is this?” said Don Jose, lifting his iron-gray brows; “but a moment ago we would sell everything, for any money.  Now we would buy.  Is it so?”

“One moment, Don Jose,” said Poindexter, with a baleful light in his dark eyes.  “Do I understand that you are the ally of Spencer Tucker and his mistress, that you intend to turn this doubly betrayed wife from the only roof she has to cover her?”

“Ah, I comprehend not.  You heard her say she wished to go.  Perhaps it may please me to distribute largess to these cattle yonder, I do not say no.  More she does not ask.  But you, Don Marco, of whom are you advocate?  You abandon your client’s mistress for the wife, is it so?”

“What I may do you will learn hereafter,” said Poindexter, who had regained his composure, suddenly reining up his horse.  “As our paths seem likely to diverge, they had better begin now.  Good morning.”