ity outgeneraled Cupid, and presently the conversation flagged,
until a convenient recollection of Victor's--that himself and
comrade were due at the Posada del Toros at 10 o'clock--gave them the
opportunity to retire. But not without a chance shot from Carmen. "Tell
to me," she said, half to Victor and half to Miguel, "what has chanced
with Concho? He was ever ready to bring to me flowers from the mountain,
and insects and birds. Thou knowest how he would sit, oh, my uncle, and
talk to me of the rare rocks he had seen, and the bears and the evil
spirits, and now he comes no longer, my Concho! How is this?
Nothing evil has befallen him, surely?" and her drooping lids closed
half-pathetically.

Miguel's jealousy took fire. "He is drunk, Senorita, doubtless, and
has forgotten not only thee but, mayhap, his mule and pack! It is his
custom, ha! ha!"

The red died out of Carmen's ripe lips, and she shut them together with
a snap like a steel purse. The dove had suddenly changed to a hawk; the
child-girl into an antique virago; the spirit hitherto dimly outlined
in her face, of some shrewish Garcia ancestress, came to the fore. She
darted a quick look at her uncle, and then, with her little hands on her
rigid lips, strode with two steps up to Miguel.

"Possibly, O Senor Miguel Dominguez Perez (a profound courtesy here), it
is as thou sayest. Drunkard Concho may be; but, drunk or sober, he never
turned his back on his friend--or--(the words grated a little here)--his
enemy."

Miguel would have replied, but Victor was ready. "Fool," he said,
pinching his arm, "'tis an old friend. And--and--the application is
still to be filled up. Are you crazy?"

But on this point Miguel was not, and with the revenge of a rival added
to his other instincts, he permitted Victor to lead him away.

On their return to the fonda, they found Master Manuel too far gone with
aguardiente, and a general animosity to the average Americano, to be
of any service. So they worked alone, with pen, ink, and paper, in the
stuffy, cigarrito-clouded back room of the fonda. It was midnight, two
hours after Concho had started, that Miguel clapped spurs to his
horse for the village of Tres Pinos, with an application to Governor
Micheltorena for a grant to the "Rancho of the Red Rocks" comfortably
bestowed in his pocket.

CHAPTER VII

WHO PLEAD FOR IT

There can be little doubt the coroner's jury of Fresno would have
returned a verdict of "death from