“Listen, Senor!  The mother of Solano was a she-devil under the saddle, and killed two men by throwing herself upon them; and the sire was Satanas, of whom stories are told around the camp-fires as far south as San Luis Obispo.

“Ah, he is wise, the patron!  ’Then let them also prove their courage in other ways.  Let the victor pray to the saints and ride Solano, who is five years old and has never felt the riata since he left his mother’s side—­who was a devil.’  Me, I heard the soul of the patron speak thus, while the lips of the patron said to me: 

“’Go back to the rodeo, Valencia, and proclaim to all that I will give the grand fiesta with sports to please all.  Tell them that already two have agreed to contest with riatas for a prize—­’ Look you, Senor, how wily is the patron!—­’And for the prize I name the gelding, Solano, who has never known weight of saddle.  Tell them, Valencia, that the victor shall ride his prize for all the crowd to see.  And if he is thrown, then Solano will be forfeit to the other, who must ride him also.  There will be other sports and other prizes, Valencia, and others may contest in riding, in the lassoing and tying of wild steers, in running.  But say that Don Jose Pacheco and the Senor Jack Allen will contest with riatas for the possession of Solano.’  Ah, Senor—­”

“Ah, Valencia, why not scatter some of your enthusiasm over the other camp-fires?” Dade broke in quizzically.  “Go and proclaim it, then.  Tell the San Vincente men, and the Las Uvas, and all the other vaqueros.”

Valencia, grinned and departed, leaving behind him in the loose sand tracks more than three feet apart to show how eager was his obedience; and Dade sat down upon a dead log that had been dragged to the Picardo camp-fire, to consider how this new phase of the affair would affect the temper of the people who owned such warm hearts and such hot heads.

A fiesta, with the duelo fought openly under the guise of a contest for the medal and a prize which was well worth any man’s best efforts—­surely, Don Andres was wily, as Valencia said.  But with all the people of the valley there to see, their partisanship inflamed by the wine of festivity and the excitement of the sports themselves—­what then?

Dade thoughtfully rolled a corn-husk cigarette, and tried to peer into the future.  As it looked to him, he and Jack were rather between the devil and the deep sea.  If Jack were beaten, they would be scorned and crowed over and humiliated beyond endurance.  Neither was made of the stuff to stand much of that, and they would probably wind up with both hands and their hats full of trouble.  And to himself he admitted that there was a fair chance of that very result.  He had not been blind, and Jose had not shrunk into the background when there was riata-work and riding to be done on the rodeo ground.  Dade had watched him as jealously as it was in his nature to do, and the eyes of jealousy are keen indeed; and he had seen Jose make many throws, and never a miss.  Which, if you know anything of rope-work, was a remarkable record for any man.  So there was a good chance of Jose winning that fight.  In his heart Dade knew it, even if his lips never would admit it.