und the evening camp-fires. As is ever the case when a man
is young, handsome, rich, and holds proudly the gold medal which
proclaims him the champion of the whole State--the golden disk which
many a young vaquero longed to wrest from him in a fair test of
skill--there were those who would rather like to see Jose humbled. True,
they would never choose an alien to do the humbling, and the possibility
was discussed with various head-shakings amongst themselves.

But there were the Picardo vaqueros stanchly swearing by all the saints
they knew that these two gringos were not as other gringos; that these
two were worthy a place amongst true Californians. Could they not see
that this Senor Hunter was as themselves? And he was not more Spanish in
his speech and his ways than was the Senor Allen, albeit the Senor
Allen's eyes were blue as the lupines, and his hair the color of the
madrona bark when it grows dark with age--or nearly the color. And he
could shoot, that blue-eyed one!

Valencia, having an audience of a dozen or more one night, grew eloquent
upon the prowess of the blue-eyed one. And the audience, listening,
vowed that they would like to see him matched against Jose, who thought
himself supreme in everything.

"Not in fighting," amended Valencia, his teeth gleaming white in the
fire-glow, as he leaned to pull a brand from the blaze that he might
relight the cigarette which had gone out while he told the tale of that
running fight, when the two Americanos had shamed a whole crowd of
gringos--for so did Valencia make nice distinction of names.

"Not in fighting, amigos, nor yet in love! And because he knows that it
is so, the cheeks of Don Jose hang slack, and he rides with chin upon
his breast, when he thinks no one is looking. The medalla oro is his,
yes. But he would gladly give it for that which the Senor Allen
possesses. Me, I think that the Senor Allen could as easily win also the
medalla oro as he has won the other prize." There was a certain fineness
in Valencia that would never permit his tongue to fling the name of the
Senorita Teresa amongst these vaqueros; but he was sure that they caught
his meaning.

"Dios! me, I should like to see him try," cried a tall San Vincente
rider, shifting his position to ease a cramp in his long leg; and his
tone was neither contemptuous nor even doubtful, but merely eager for
the excitement there would be in the spectacle.

Some one in the shadows turned and walked qu