. Once he sees
the English officer at his rapier's point, he will show him no mercy,
but run him through, without the slightest compunction. In vain may his
adversary cry "Quarter." There can be none conceded, after what has
that day passed between them.

"_Maldita_! it shall be a duel to the death!" he exclaims, after having
given way to a series of threats, the words pronounced with an
_empressement_ that tells him to be truly, terribly in earnest.

They have been carrying on this excited dialogue, as their horses
climbed the slope from the Pacific side, its steepness hindering them
from going at their usual gait--a gallop. On rising the ridge's crest,
and catching sight of San Francisco, with its newly painted white walls,
and shining tin roofs, reflected red in the rays of the setting sun, De
Lara, suddenly remembering the pressure upon him as to time, strikes the
spur sharp against his horse's ribs, and puts the animal to speed. The
other imitating his example, they dash on towards Dolores.

They have no intention to make stop at the mission; but, on reaching it,
they draw up; obedient to the hail of a man seen standing in the door of
a little tavern, or _tinacal_, frequented by the lower class of native
Californians.

A rough, swarthy-skinned fellow, in a garb that proclaims his calling to
have connection with the sea, though not that of a sailor. He may be a
shore-boatman--perhaps a _piscador_--though, judging by his general
appearance, and the uncanny cast of his countenance, he might well pass
for a pirate.

Stepping a few paces out from the _tinacal_, he salutes the two
horsemen, who have halted in the middle of the road to await his
approach. Despite his coarse, brutal aspect, and common habiliments, he
is evidently on terms of familiarity with both--the style of his
salutation showing it. It is with De Lara, however, his business lies,
as signified by his saying:

"I want a word with you, Don Francisco."

"What is it, Rocas?" asks the Creole. "Anything about _seal-skins_?"
laying a significant emphasis on the last word.

"_Carramba_! No. Something of more importance than that."

"Money, then?"

"Money."

"Do you wish our speech to be private?"

"Just now, yes. Perhaps, in time, Don Faustino--"

"Oh!" interrupts the _ganadero_, "don't let me stand in the way. I'll
ride slowly on; you can overtake me, Don Francisco."

"Do," says De Lara, at the same time stooping down in his sadd