I don't want to know how
Jose works with his riata. He don't know any of my little kinks, don't
you see? I never," he added, after a little silence, "started out with
the deliberate intention of killing a man, before. I can't take any
advantage, Dade; you know that, just as well as I do." He tried to
smile, to soften the rebuff--and he failed.

Dade went up and laid a contrite hand upon his shoulder. "You're a
better man than I am, Jack," he asserted humbly. "But it's hell for me
to stand back and let you go into this thing alone. I've got piles of
confidence in you, old boy--but Jose never got that medal by saying
'pretty, please' and holding out his hand. The best lassoer in
California means something. And he means to kill you--"

"If I'll let him," put in Jack, stretching his lips in what passed for a
grin.

"I know--but you've been off the range for two years, just about; and
you've had a little over three weeks to make up for that lost practice."
His eyes caught their two reflections in the glass, and something in
Jack's made him smile ruefully. "Kick me good," he advised. "I need it.
I've got nerves worse than any old woman. I know you'll come out on top.
You always do. But--what'n hell made you say riatas?"

"What'n hell made you brag about me to Manuel?" Jack came back
instantly, and was sorry for it when he saw how Dade winced. "Honest,
I'm not a bit scared. I know what I can do, and I'm not worrying."

"You are. I never saw you so queer as you have been since I came back.
You're no more like yourself than--"

"Well--but it ain't the duel altogether." Jack hesitated. "Say, Dade!
Did--er--did Teresita take in all the sports? Bull fight and all?"

"Yes. She and that friend of hers from the Mission were in the front row
having the time of their lives. Is that talk true about--" Dade eyed him
sharply.

"You go on and get things ready. In five minutes I'll expect to make my
little bow to Fate."

Outside in the sunshine, men waited and clamored greedily for more
excitement. All day they had waited for the duel, at most merely
appeased by the other sports; and now, with Jose actually among them,
and with the wine they had drunk to heat their blood and the
mob-psychology working its will of them, they were scarce human, but
rather a tremendous battle beast personified by dark, eager faces and
tongues that wagged continually and with prejudice.

A group of spur-jingling vaqueros, chosen because of their well