After supper the men sat out beneath the vine-covered portal—­Malvey and Flores with a wicker-covered demijohn of wine between them—­and Pete lounging on the doorstep, smoking and gazing across the canon at the faint stars of an early evening.  With the wine, old Flores’s manner changed from surly indifference to a superficial politeness which in no way deceived Pete.  And Malvey, whose intent was plainly to get drunk, boasted of his doings on either side of the line.  He hinted that he had put more than one Mexican out of the way—­and he slapped Flores on the back—­and Flores laughed.  He spoke of raids on the horse-herds of white men, and through some queer perversity inspired in his drink, openly asserted that he was the “slickest hoss-thief in Arizona,” turning to Pete as he spoke.

“I’ll take your word for it,” said Pete.

“But what’s the use of settin’ out here like a couple of dam’ buzzards when the ladies are waitin’ for us in there?” queried Malvey, and be leered at Flores.

The old Mexican grunted and rose stiffly.  They entered the ’dobe, Malvey insisting that Pete come in and hear Boca sing.

“I can listen out here.”  Pete was beginning to hate Malvey, with the cold, deliberate hatred born of instinct.  As for old Flores, Pete despised him heartily.  A man that could hear his countrymen called “a dirty bunch of Greasers,” and have nothing to say, was a pretty poor sort of a man.

Disgusted with Malvey’s loud talk and his raw attitude toward Boca, Pete sat in the moon-flung shadows of the portal and smoked and gazed at the stars.  He was half-asleep when he heard Boca tell Malvey that he was a pig and the son of a pig.  Malvey laughed.  There came the sound of a scuffle.  Pete glanced over his shoulder.  Malvey had his arm around the girl and was trying to kiss her.  Flores was watching them, grinning in a kind of drunken indifference.

Pete hesitated.  He was there on sufferance—­a stranger.  After all, this was none of his business.  Boca’s father and mother were also there . . .

Boca screamed.  Malvey let go of her and swung round as Pete stepped up.  “What’s the idee, Malvey?”

“You don’t draw no cards in this deal,” snarled Malvey.

“Then we shuffle and cut for a new deal,” said Pete.

Malvey’s loose mouth hardened as he backed toward the corner of the room, where Boca cringed, her hands covering her face.  Suddenly the girl sprang up and caught Malvey’s arm, “No!  No!” she cried.

He flung her aside and reached for his gun—­but Pete was too quick for him.  They crashed down and rolled across the room.  Pete wriggled free and rose.  In a flash he realized that he was no match for Malvey’s brute strength.  He had no desire to kill Malvey—­but he did not intend that Malvey should kill him.  Pete jerked his gun loose as Malvey staggered to his feet, but Pete dared not shoot on account of Boca.  He saw Malvey’s hand touch the butt of his gun—­when something crashed down from behind.  Pete dimly remembered Boca’s white face—­and the room went black.