But it was altogether different with Americans.  The men of that race were compelled to surrender their gold; although so far as he was concerned, their women were exempt from robbery.  As a matter of fact, he had few chances to show his chivalry, since few women were living, at that time, in the Sierras.  Nevertheless, it happened in rare instances that a stage was held up which contained one or two of them, and they were never known to complain of his treatment.  And so far, at least, he had contrived to avoid any serious bloodshed.  Two or three messengers, it is true, had been slightly wounded; but that was the most that his worst enemies could charge against him.

As for Ramerrez’s own attitude towards the life he was leading, it must be confessed that, the plunge once taken, his days and nights were too full of excitement and adventure to leave him time to brood.  Somewhat to his own surprise, he had inherited his father’s power of iron domination.  Young as he was, not one of his father’s seasoned band of cut-throats ever questioned his right or his ability to command.  At first, no doubt, they followed him through a rude spirit of loyalty; but after a short time it was because they had found in him all the qualities of a leader of men, one whose plans never miscarried.  Fully two-thirds of the present band were vassals, as it were, in his family, while all were of Spanish or Mexican descent.  In truth, Ramerrez himself was the only one among them who had any gringo blood in his veins.  And hence not a tale of the outlaw’s doings was complete without the narrator insisting upon it that the leader of the band—­the road agent himself—­closely resembled an American.  One and all of his victims agreed that he spoke with an American accent, while the few who had been able to see his features on a certain occasion when the red bandanna, which he wore about his face, had fallen, never failed to maintain that he looked like an American.

As a matter of fact, Ramerrez not only bore the imprint of his mother’s race in features and in speech, but the more he made war upon them, the more he realised that it was without any real feeling of hostility.  In spite of his early training and in spite of his oath, he could not share his father’s bitterness.  True, the gringos had wrecked the fortunes of his house; it was due to them that his sole inheritance was an outlaw’s name and an outlaw’s leadership.  And yet, despite it all, there was another fact that he could not forget,—­the fact that he himself was one half gringo, one half the same race as that of the unforgotten Girl whom he had met on the road to Sacramento.  Indeed, it had been impossible to forget her, for she had stirred some depth in him, the existence of which he had never before suspected.  He was haunted by the thought of her attractive face, her blue eyes and merry, contagious laugh.  For the hundredth time he recalled his feelings on that glorious day when he had intercepted her on the great