“It was my collar button, and I dropped like a shot.  It was a minute before I could get my breath ag’in, and when I did and managed to climb that darned stockade, and drop on the other side, thar warn’t a soul to be seen!  A few hosses that stampeded in my gettin’ over the fence war all that was there!  I was mighty shook up, you bet!—­and to make the hull thing perfectly ridic’lous, when I got back to the road, after all I’d got through, darn my skin, ef thar warn’t that pesky lot o’ drunken men staggerin’ along, jinglin’ the scads they had won, and enjoyin’ themselves, and nobody a-followin’ ’em!  I jined ’em jest for kempany’s sake, till we got back to town, but nothin’ happened.”

“But, my dear Richards,” said the editor warmly, “this is no longer a matter of mere reporting, but of business for the police.  You must see the deputy sheriff at once, and bring your complaint—­or shall I?  It’s no joking matter.”

“Hol’ on, Mr. Grey,” replied Richards slowly.  “I’ve told this to nobody but you—­nor am I goin’ to—­sabe?  It’s an affair of my own—­and I reckon I kin take care of it without goin’ to the Revised Statutes of the State of California, or callin’ out the sheriff’s posse.”

His humorous blue eyes just then had certain steely points in them like glittering facets as he turned them away, which the editor had seen before on momentous occasions, and he was speaking slowly and composedly, which the editor also knew boded no good to an adversary.

“Don’t be a fool, Richards,” he said quietly.  “Don’t take as a personal affront what was a common, vulgar crime.  You would undoubtedly have been robbed by that rascal had not the others come along.”

Richards shook his head.  “I might hev bin robbed a dozen times afore they came along—­ef that was the little game.  No, Mr. Grey,—­it warn’t no robbery.”

“Had you been paying court to the Senora Ramierez, like Colonel Starbottle?” asked the editor, with a smile.

“Not much,” returned Richards scornfully; “she ain’t my style.  But”—­he hesitated, and then added, “thar was a mighty purty gal thar—­and her darter, I reckon—­a reg’lar pink fairy!  She kem in only a minute, and they sorter hustled her out ag’in—­for darn my skin ef she didn’t look as much out o’ place in that smoky old garlic-smellin’ room as an angel at a bull-fight.  And what got me—­she was ez white ez you or me, with blue eyes, and a lot o’ dark reddish hair in a long braid down her back.  Why, only for her purty sing-song voice and her ‘Gracias, senor,’ you’d hev reckoned she was a Blue Grass girl jest fresh from across the plains.”

A little amused at his foreman’s enthusiasm, Mr. Grey gave an ostentatious whistle and said, “Come, now, Richards, look here!  Really!”

“Only a little girl—­a mere child, Mr. Grey—­not more’n fourteen if a day,” responded Richards, in embarrassed depreciation.

“Yes, but those people marry at twelve,” said the editor, with a laugh.  “Look out!  Your appreciation may have been noticed by some other admirer.”