“Thank you,” the clerk said, with an excess of politeness.

He was still nervous.  He furtively observed his visitor stowing the deed in a pocket, as if expecting Bryant to initiate some new violence, and resolved on flight if he should.

“There, my friend, that’s all you can do for me just now,” the engineer remarked.  “But I shall return soon, so keep awake and ready.  When you see me entering, advance pronto.  If anything annoys me, it’s being kept waiting by a Mexican boy-clerk.  Do you get that clearly?”

“Si, senor,” the other replied, unconsciously lapsing into his native tongue.

“Muy bueno—­and bear it in mind.  Now I advise you to get to work on the documents you’ve allowed to accumulate; it’s half-past two and you’ve had enough of a siesta for one noon.”  With which Bryant took his departure.

Outside he led his horse across the street to the frame store.  Beside the latter stood Menocal’s house, with its smooth green lawn and its beds of poppies, its trees, its fence massed with sweet peas, and its vine-covered veranda, where the engineer had a glimpse of a corpulent figure in a hammock.  The only sound from the place was the musical gurgle of water in a little irrigation ditch bordering the lawn.

Inside the long store Bryant aroused the only man in sight, a Mexican who slept on the counter with his head pillowed on a pile of overalls.

“Go tell Menocal there’s a man here to see him on business,” Lee said.

The awakened sleeper slid off his perch, rubbed his eyes, yawned, stretched himself, and then shook his head with great gravity.

“Mr. Menocal takes his siesta till three o’clock; you can see him at that time,” he said, in English.

“I’ll see him now.”

“Impossible!  He is very angry when awakened for a small matter.”

Bryant went a step nearer to the speaker.

“Where do you get the authority to decide that my business is a small matter?” he demanded, with a menace of manner that caused the other to retreat in haste.  “Go bring him and make me no more trouble.”

The man went.  Bryant lighted a cigarette and fell to surveying the store’s merchandise.  Several minutes passed before a murmur of voices apprised him of the coming of the men.  Menocal entered the side door first, approaching heavily and sleepily the spot where the engineer waited.  He had not put on coat or collar; his short figure appeared more than ever obese; his sweeping white moustache divided his plump, shiny brown face; and his air was that of one who must put up with vexatious interruptions because of the important position he filled.

“You wish to speak with me?” he asked, shortly.

“That’s why I’m here,” Bryant returned.

Menocal gazed at him owlishly for a time.

“You’re the man who threw my son’s money back at the ford day before yesterday, aren’t you?” he questioned.