The wasted energies of these peons finally commenced to irritate John Parker.

“How long are you going to tolerate the presence of this healthy lot of cholo loafers and grafters, Farrel?” he demanded one day.  “Have you any idea of what it is costing you to support that gang?”

“Yes,” Farrel replied.  “About ten dollars a day.”

“You cannot afford that expense.”

“I know it.  But then, they’re the local color, they’ve always been and they will continue to be while I have title to this ranch.  Why, their hearts would be broken if I refused them permission to nestle under the cloak of my philanthropy, and he is a poor sort of white man who will disappoint a poor devil of a cholo.”

“You’re absolutely incomprehensible,” Parker declared.

Farrel laughed.  “You’re not,” he replied.  “Know anything about a stop-watch?”

“I know all about one.”

“Well, your daughter has sent to San Francisco for the best stop-watch money can buy, and it’s here.  I’ve had my father’s old stop-watch cleaned and regulated.  Panchito’s on edge and we’re going to give him a half-mile tryout to-morrow, so I want two stop-watches on him.  Will you oblige, sir?”

Parker willingly consented, and the following morning Farrel and his guests repaired to the race-track.  Kay, mounted on Panchito in racing gear, was, by courtesy, given a position next to the rail.  Eighty pounds of dark meat, answering to the name of Allesandro Trujillo and claiming Pablo Artelan as his grandfather, drew next position on Peep-sight, as Farrel had christened Panchito’s half-brother, while three other half-grown cholo youths, gathered at random here and there, faced the barrier on the black mare, the old gray roping horse and a strange horse belonging to one of the volunteer jockeys.

There was considerable backing, filling and some bucking at the barrier, and Pablo and two of his relatives, acting as starters, were kept busy straightening out the field.  Finally, with a shrill yip, Pablo released the web and the flighty young Peep-sight was away in front, with the black mare’s nose at his saddle-girth and the field spread out behind him, with Panchito absolutely last.

At the quarter-pole Kay had worked her mount easily up through the ruck to contend with Peep-sight.  The half-thoroughbred was three years old and his muscles had been hardened by many a wild scramble up and down the hills of El Palomar; he was game, he was willing, and for half a mile he was marvelously fast, as Farrel had discovered early in the tryouts.  Indeed, as a “quarter-horse” Farrel knew that few horses might beat the comparatively green Peep-sight and he had been indiscreet enough to make that statement in the presence of youthful Allesandro Trujillo, thereby filling that young hopeful with a tremendous ambition to race the famed Panchito into submission for the mere sport of a race.