e of his rare fits of ill-temper.

"Yet I know that there will be a duelo," he comforted himself with
thinking, as he limped wearily across the patio. "The face of the patron
is black because of it, and a little devil-flame burns in the eyes of
the senorita because for love of her men would fight--(Such is the way
of women, to joy in those things which should give them, fear!)--and
the senora's face is sagged with worry, and Senor Jack--ah, there is the
fighting look in those eyes! Never have I seen them so dark: like the
bay when a storm is riding upon the wind. And it will be riatas--for so
Manuel told me. Me, I will wager my saddle upon the Senor Jack, even
though riatas be the weapons. For he is wily, that blue-eyed one; never
would he choose the rawhide unless he knew its hiss as he knows his own
heartbeats. Let it be riatas, then, if so the senor chooses!"

CHAPTER XVII

A FIESTA WE SHALL HAVE

Jack, unfolding the crumpled paper, read twice the note from Dade, and
at each reading gave a little snort. He folded the paper, unfolded it
and read again:

"Dear Jack,

"If Jose wants to fight, take a fool's advice and don't. Better
quit the ranch and go back to town for a while--Valencia will
get there ahead of Manuel, he says, and you can pull out before
Manuel shows up. A licking might do Jose good, but it would stir
up a lot of trouble and raise hell all around, so crawl into any hole
you come to. I'll quit as soon as rodeo is over, and meet you in
town. Now don't be bull-headed. Let your own feelings go into
the discard for once, and do what's best for the whole valley.
Everything's going smooth here. Noah's dove ain't got any the best of
me and Jose, and the boys are working fine.

"Dade."

"At least your majordomo agrees with you, Don Andres," he said, twisting
the note unthinkingly in his fingers. "Dade wants me to sneak off to
town and hide in Bill Wilson's cellar." There was more resentment in his
tone than the note itself had put there; for the argument which Valencia
had unwittingly interrupted had been threatening to become acrimonious.

"My majordomo," replied Don Andres, his habitual courtesy just saving
the words from becoming a retort, "continues to show that rare good
sense which first attracted me to him."

The senora moved uneasily in her chair and smiled deprecatingly at Jack,
then imploringly at her husband. This was washing day, and those
shif