narrow lane that led to the gate. But, as Incarnacion had truly said,
"It was an evil day," for at the bottom of the lane, ambling slowly
along as he lazily puffed a yellow cigarette, appeared the figure of
the erring Pedro. Utterly unconscious of the accident, attributing the
disappearance of his charges to the inequalities of the plain, and,
in truth, little interested in what he firmly believed was his purely
artificial function, he had even made a larger circuit to stop at a
wayside fonda for refreshments.

Unfortunately, there is no more illogical sequence of human emotion than
the exasperation produced by the bland manner of the unfortunate object
who has excited it, although that very unconcern may be the convincing
proof of innocence of intention. Judge Peyton, already influenced, was
furious at the comfortable obliviousness of his careless henchman, and
rode angrily towards him. Only a quick turn of Pedro's wrist kept the
two men from coming into collision.

"Is this the way you attend to your duty?" demanded Peyton, in a thick,
suppressed voice, "Where is the buggy? Where is my daughter?"

There was no mistaking Judge Peyton's manner, even if the reason of
it was not so clear to Pedro's mind, and his hot Latin blood flew
instinctively to his face. But for that, he might have shown some
concern or asked an explanation. As it was, he at once retorted with the
national shrug and the national half-scornful, half-lazy "Quien sabe?"

"Who knows?" repeated Peyton, hotly. "I do! She was thrown out of her
buggy through your negligence and infernal laziness! The ponies ran
away, and were stopped by a stranger who wasn't afraid of risking
his bones, while you were limping around somewhere like a slouching,
cowardly coyote."

The vacquero struggled a moment between blank astonishment and
inarticulate rage. At last he burst out:--

"I am no coyote! I was there! I saw no runaway!"

"Don't lie to me, sir!" roared Peyton. "I tell you the buggy was
smashed, the girls were thrown out and nearly killed"--He stopped
suddenly. The sound of youthful laughter had come from the bottom of the
lane, where Susy Peyton and Mary Rogers, just alighted from the coach,
in the reaction of their previous constrained attitude, were flying
hilariously into view. A slight embarrassment crossed Peyton's face; a
still deeper flush of anger overspread Pedro's sullen cheek.

Then Pedro found tongue again, his native one, rapidly, violently,