r he perhaps worked it off to his feet where it caught on his spur, and
then he was dragged until the boot came off, and behold! he was dead."

This had been Clarence's own theory of the murder, but he had only
half confided it to Incarnacion. He silently examined the spur with the
accusing horse-hair, and placed it in his desk. Incarnacion continued:--

"There is not a vacquero in the whole rancho who has a horse-hair riata.
We use the braided cowhide; it is heavier and stronger; it is for
the bull and not the man. The horse-hair riata comes from over the
range--south."

There was a dead silence, broken only by the drumming of the rain upon
the roof of the veranda. Incarnacion slightly shrugged his shoulders.

"Don Clarencio does not know the southern county? Francisco Robles,
cousin of the 'Sisters,'--he they call 'Pancho,'--comes from the south.
Surely when Don Clarencio bought the title he saw Francisco, for he was
the steward?"

"I dealt only with the actual owners and through my bankers in San
Francisco," returned Clarence abstractedly.

Incarnacion looked through the yellow corners of his murky eyes at his
master.

"Pedro Valdez, who was sent away by Senor Peyton, is the foster-brother
of Francisco. They were much together. Now that Francisco is rich from
the gold Don Clarencio paid for the title, they come not much together.
But Pedro is rich, too. Mother of God! He gambles and is a fine
gentleman. He holds his head high,--even over the Americanos he gambles
with. Truly, they say he can shoot with the best of them. He boasts and
swells himself, this Pedro! He says if all the old families were like
him, they would drive those western swine back over the mountains
again."

Clarence raised his eyes, caught a subtle yellow flash from
Incarnacion's, gazed at him suddenly, and rose.

"I don't think I have ever seen him," he said quietly. "Thank you for
bringing me the spur. But keep the knowledge of it to yourself, good
Nascio, for the present."

Nascio nevertheless still lingered. Perceiving which, Clarence handed
him a cigarette and proceeded to light one himself. He knew that the
vacquero would reroll his, and that that always deliberate occupation
would cover and be an excuse for further confidence.

"The Senora Peyton does not perhaps meet this Pedro in the society of
San Francisco?"

"Surely not. The senora is in mourning and goes not out in society, nor
would she probably go anywhere where she wo