Don Nicolas Sandoval rode his horse through the crowd presently and opened a path for the car.

“I’m afraid this has been a trifle embarrassing for you, Miss Parker,” Farrel remarked, as they proceeded down the street.  “I shall not recognize any more of them.  I’ve greeted them all in general, and some day next week I’ll come to town and greet them in detail.  They were all glad I came back, though, weren’t they?” he added, with a boy’s eagerness.  “Lord, but I was glad to see them!”

“I can hardly believe you are the same man I saw manhandling your enemy an hour ago,” she declared.

“Oh,” he replied, with a careless shrug, “fighting and loving are the only two worth-while things in life.  Park in front of the court-house, William, please.”

He excused himself to Kay and ran lightly up the steps.  Fifteen minutes later, he returned.

“I have a writ of execution,” he declared.  “Now to find the sheriff and have him serve it.”

They located Don Nicolas Sandoval at the post-office, one leg cocked over the pommel of his saddle, and the El Toro Sentinel spread on his knee.

“Father’s old business with the Basque, Don Nicolas,” Farrel informed him.  “He has money deposited in his own name in the First National Bank of El Toro.”

“I have grown old hunting that fellow’s assets, Miguel, my boy,” quoth Don Nicolas.  “If I can levy on a healthy bank-account, I shall feel that my life has not been lived in vain.”

He folded his newspaper, uncoiled his leg from the pommel, and started up the street at the dignified fast walk he had taught his mount.  Farrel returned to the car and, with Kay, arrived before the portals of the bank a few minutes in advance of the sheriff, just in time to see Andre Loustalot leap from his automobile, dash up the broad stone steps, and fairly hurl himself into the bank.

“I don’t know whether I ought to permit him to withdraw his money and have Don Nicolas attach it on his person or not.  Perhaps that would be dangerous,” Miguel remarked.  He stepped calmly out of the car, assisted Kay to alight, and, with equal deliberation, entered the bank with the girl.

“Now for some fun,” he whispered.  “Behold the meanest man in America—­myself!”

Loustalot was at the customers’ desk writing a check to cash for his entire balance in bank.  Farrel permitted him to complete the drawing of the check, watched the Basque almost trot toward the paying-teller’s window, and as swiftly trotted after him.

“All—­everything!” Loustalot panted, and reached over the shoulders of two customers in line ahead of him.  But Don Miguel Farrel’s arm was stretched forth also; his long brown fingers closed over the check and snatched it from the Basque’s hand as he murmured soothingly: 

“You will have to await your turn, Loustalot.  For your bad manners, I shall destroy this check.”  And he tore the signature off and crumpled the little slip of paper into a ball, which he flipped into Loustalot’s brutal face.