l." The tone of him, being
unsympathetic, precipitated an argument which flung crisp English
sentences back and forth across the cabin. Manuel, when the words
grew strange and took on a harsh tang which to his ear meant anger,
diplomatically sought his blankets and merged into the shadow of the
corner farthest from the fire and nearest the door. The senors were
pleased to disagree; if they fought, he had but to dodge out into
the night and neutrality. The duties of hospitality weighed hard upon
Manuel during that half-hour or so.

Dade's cigarette stub, flung violently into the heart of the fire
glow, seemed to Manuel a crucial point in the quarrel; he slipped back
the blankets, ready to retreat at the first lunge of open warfare. He
breathed relief, however, when Dade got up and stretched his arms
to the dried tules overhead, and laughed a lazy surrender of the
argument, if not of his opinion upon the subject.

"You're surely the most ambitious trouble-hunter I ever saw," he said,
returning to his habitual humorous drawl, with the twinkle in his eyes
that went with it. "Just the same, we'll not go back to the mine just
yet. Till the dust settles, we're both better off down here with
Don Andres Picardo. I don't want to be hung for the company I keep.
Besides--"

"I'll bet ten ounces there's a senorita," hazarded. Jack maliciously.
"You're like Bill Wilson; but you can preach caution till your jaws
ache; you can't fool me into believing you're afraid to go back to the
mine. Is there a senorita?"

"You shut up and go to sleep," snapped Dade, and afterward would not
speak at all.

Manuel, in the shadow, frowned over the only words he understood--Don
Andres Picardo and senorita. The senors were agreeable companions, and
they were his guests. But they were gringos, after all. And if
they should presume to lift desireful eyes to the little Senorita
Teresa--Teresita, they called her fondly who knew her--Manuel's
mustache lifted suddenly at one side at the bare possibility.

CHAPTER VI

THE VALLEY

In the valley of Santa Clara, which lies cradled easily between
mountains and smiles up at the sun nearly the whole year through,
Spring has a winter home, wherein she dwells contentedly while the
northern land is locked in the chill embrace of the Snow King. In
February, unless the north wind sweeps down jealously and stays her
hand, she flings a golden brocade of poppies over the green hillsides
and the lower sl