ince, he had never seen a horse like this. Its coat was pure gold, a
perfect match to one of the eagles in his money belt. But the silky locks
of mane and tail were night black. Its breeding was plainly Arab, and it
walked with a delicate pride as gracefully as a man might foot a dance
measure.

Drew had a difficult time breaking his gaze from the horse to the man
dismounting. The ranchero was tall, perhaps an inch or so taller than
Drew, and his body had the leanness of the men who worked the range
country, possessing, too, a lithe youthfulness of carriage. Until one
looked directly into his sun-browned face he could pass as a man still in
his late twenties.

But he was older, perhaps a decade older than that, Drew thought. Too high
and prominent cheekbones with slight hollows below them, and a mouth tight
set, made more for strength of will and discipline of feeling than
conventional good looks. Yet his was a face not easily forgotten, once
seen. Black hair was pepper-salted for a finger-wide space above his ears,
which were fronted by long sideburns, and black brows were straight above
dark eyes. In spite of his below-the-border dress and his coloring, he was
unmistakably Anglo, just as the man looping both horses' reins to the rack
was Mexican.

"So, you're still wearing your hair in good order? No trouble this trip?"
Topham had come to the door of the cantina, his hand outstretched.
"Welcome back, Hunt!"

"Paugh!" The Mexican spat. "Where is there one Indio who is able to face
_Don_ Cazar on his own ground? The folly of that they learned long ago."

_Don_ Cazar smiled. That mask of aloofness was wiped away as if he were
ten years younger and twenty years less responsible than he had been only
seconds earlier. "And if they did not beware our rifles, Bartolome here
would talk them to death! Is that not so, _amigo_?" His speech was oddly
formal, as if he were using a language other than his own, but there was a
warmth to the tone which matched that sudden and surprising smile.

Topham's arm went about the shoulders under the black-and-silver jacket,
drawing _Don_ Cazar into the light, music, and excitement of the cantina.
While Drew watched, the stouter back of Bartolome cut off his first good
look at his father.

So ... _that_ was _Don_ Cazar--Hunt Rennie! Drew did not know what he had
expected of their first meeting. Now he could not understand why he felt
so chilled and lost. He had planned it this way--no d