r respects Don
Ricardo and his family differed not at all from the many Guzmans who
lived across the border. The Guzman ranch comprised a goodly number of
acres, and, since live stock multiply rapidly, its owner had in some
sort prospered. On the bank of a resaca---a former bed of the Rio
Grande--stood the house, an adobe structure, square, white, and
unprotected from the sun by shrub or tree. Behind it were some brush
corrals and a few scattered mud jacals, in which lived the help.

Ricardo had just risen from a siesta when his two visitors rode up, and
he made them welcome with the best he had. There followed a
complimentary exchange of greetings and the usual flow of small talk.
Ricardo had suffered a severe toothache--the same abominable affliction
that had lost Porfirio Diaz an empire. It had been a dry spring, but,
praise God, the water still held in the resaca--his two sons were
branding calves in one of the outer pastures--and there had been a very
good calf crop indeed. Blaze recounted his own doings; Law told of
Ranger activities along the lower border. In the cool of the afternoon
Ricardo rode with his visitors, and then, cordial relations being now
established, he began to divulge information of value to Law.

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 somet