Jammed rather tightly in a narrow little dry water-course that ran through the center of the draw they found the body of Don Mike.  He was lying face downward; Parker saw that flies already rosetted a wound thick with blood clots on top of his head.

“Poor, poor boy,” Parker cried agonizedly.

Pablo straddled the little watercourse, got a grip around his master’s body and lifted it out to Parker, who received it and laid the limp form out on the grass.  While he stood looking down at Don Mike’s white, relaxed face, Pablo knelt, made the sign of the cross and commenced to pray for the peaceful repose of his roaster’s soul.  It was a long prayer; Parker, waiting patiently for him to finish, did not know that Pablo recited the litany for the dying.

“Come, Pablo, my good fellow, you’ve prayed enough,” he suggested presently.  “Help me carry Don Miguel down to the wagon—­Pablo, he’s alive!”

“Hah!” Pablo’s exclamation was a sort of surprised bleat. “Madre de Cristo!  Look to me, Don Miguel.  Ah, little dam’ fool, you make believe to die, no?” he charged hysterically.

Don Mike’s black eyes opened slightly and his slack lower jaw tightened in a ghastly little grimace.  The transported Pablo seized him and shook him furiously, meanwhile deluging Don Mike with a stream of affectionate profanity that fell from his lips like a benediction.

“Listen,” Don Mike murmured presently.  “Pablo’s new litany.”

“Rascal!  Little, wicked heretic!  Blood of the devil!  Speak, Don Miguel.”

“Shut up!  Took your—­time—­getting me—­out—­confounded ditch—­damned—­lazy—­beggar—­”

Pablo leaped to his feet, his dusky face radiant.

“You hear!” he yelled.  “Senor Parker, you hear those boy give to me hell like old times, no?”

“You ran—­you colorado maduro good-for-nothing—­left me stuck in—­ditch—­let bushwhacker—­get away—­fix you for this, Pablo.”

Pablo’s eyes popped in ecstasy.  He grinned like a gargoyle.  “You hear those boy, senor?” he reiterated happily.  “I tell you those boy he like ol’ Pablo.  The night he come back he rub my head; yesterday he poke the rib of me with the thumb—­now pretty soon he say sometheeng, I bet you.”

“Shut up, I tell you.”  Don Mike’s voice, though very faint, was petulant.  “You’re a total idiot.  Find my horse—­get rifle—­trail that man—­who shot me—­get him—­damn your prayers—­get him—­”

“Ah, Don Miguel,” Pablo assured him in Spanish, in tones that were prideful beyond measure, “that unfortunate fellow has been shaking hands with the devil for the last forty-five minutes.”

Don Mike opened his eyes widely.  He was rapidly regaining his full consciousness.  “Your work, Pablo?”

“Mine—­with the help of God, as your illustrious grandfather, the first Don Miguel, would have said.  But you are pleased to doubt me so I shall show you the carcass of the animal.  I roped him and dragged him for two miles behind the black mare.”