Yes, he had endured many depredations from thieves.  It was shameful, but doubtless God willed that a certain amount of stealing should go on in the world.  The evil-doers were certainly favored by nature, in this locality, for the great expanse of brush country to the north and east offered almost perfect security, and the river, to the south, gave immunity from pursuit or prosecution.  The beeves were driven north into the wilderness, but the horses went to Mexico, where the war had created a market for them.  The Federals had plenty of money to buy mounts.

Whom did Don Ricardo suspect?

The old man was non-committal.  Suspicion was one thing, proof was quite another; and conviction was difficult under the best of circumstances.  Why, even a cow’s recognition of her own calf was not evidence for a court, and alibis were easily proven.  Unless the thieves were caught in the very act there was no case against them, and—­por Dios!—­one could not be for ever on guard.  Who could tell where the malefactors would strike next?  Now, in Mexico one could afford to kill an undesirable neighbor without so much formality.  But, thank God!  Don Ricardo was not a Mexican.  No, he was a good American citizen.  It was something to make him sleep well in these war-times.

“Just the same, I’ll bet he’d sleep better if the Lewis outfit was cleaned up,” Dave ventured, and Blaze agreed.

Guzman caught his enemy’s name and nodded.

“Ah!  That sin verguenza!  He sells arms to the Candeleristas and horses to the Potosistas.  Perhaps he steals my calves.  Who knows?”

“Senor Lewis doesn’t need to steal.  He has money,” Jones argued.

“True!  But who is so rich that he would not be richer?  Lewis employs men who are poor, and he himself is above nothing.  I, too, am a friend of the Rebels.  Panchito, the Liberator, was a saint, and I give money to the patriots who fight for his memory.  But I do not aid the tyrant Potosi with my other hand.  Yes, and who is richer, for instance, than Senor Eduardo Austin?”

“You surely don’t accuse him of double-dealing with the Rebels?” Blaze inquired, curiously.

“I don’t know.  He is a friend of Tad Lewis, and there are strange stories afloat.”

Just what these stories were, however, Ricardo would not say, feeling, perhaps, that he had already said too much.

The three men spent that evening together, and in the morning Blaze rode home, leaving the Ranger behind for the time being as Guzman’s guest.

Dave put in the next two days riding the pastures, familiarizing himself with the country, and talking with the few men he met.  About all he discovered, however, was the fact that the Guzman range not only adjoined some of Lewis’s leased land, but also was bounded for several miles by the Las Palmas fence.

It was pleasant to spend the days among the shy brush-cattle, with Bessie Belle for company.  The mare seemed to enjoy the excursions as much as her owner.  Her eyes and ears were ever alert; she tossed her head and snorted when a deer broke cover or a jack-rabbit scuttled out of her path; she showed a friendly interest in the awkward calves which stood and eyed her with such amazement and then galloped stiffly off with tails high arched.