“Must be a crowd from San Francisco,” said Jack needlessly.  “I wrote and told Bill about the fiesta, when I sent up after some clothes.  I told him to come down and take it in—­and I guess he’s coming.”

Bill was; and he was coming largely, emphatically, and vaingloriously.  He had a wagon well loaded with his more intimate friends, including Jim.  He had a following of half his Committee of Vigilance and all the men of like caliber who could find a horse or a mule to straddle.  Even the Roman-nosed buckskin of sinister history was in the van of the procession that came charging up the slope with all the speed it could muster after the journey from the town on the tip of the peninsula.

In the wagon were a drum, two fifes, a cornet, and much confusion of voices.  Bill, enthroned upon the front seat beside the driver of the four-horse team, waved both arms exuberantly and started the song all over again, so that they had to sing very fast indeed in order to finish by the time they swung up to the patio and stopped.

Bill scrambled awkwardly down over the wheel and gripped the hands of those two whose faces welcomed him without words.  “Well, we got here,” he announced, including the whole cavalcade with one sweeping gesture.  “Started before daylight, too, so we wouldn’t miss none of the doings.”  He tilted his head toward Dade’s ear and jerked his thumb towards the wagon.  “Say!  I brought the boys along, in case—­” His left eyelid lowered lazily and flew up again into its normal position as Don Andres, his sombrero in his hand, came towards them across the patio, smiling a dignified welcome.

Dade spoke not a word in reply, but his eyes brightened wonderfully.  There was still the element of danger, and on a larger scale than ever.  But it was heartening to have Bill Wilson’s capable self to stand beside him.  Bill could handle turbulent crowds better than any man Dade had ever seen.

They lingered, greeting acquaintances here and there among the arrivals, until Bill was at liberty again.

“Got any greaser here that can talk white man’s talk, and you can trust?” was Bill’s mild way of indicating his need of an interpreter, when the fiesta crowd had grown to the proportions of a multitude that buzzed like giant bees in a tree of ripe figs.

“Why?  What do you want of one?  Valencia will help you out, I guess.”  Dade’s hesitation was born of inattention rather than reluctance.  He was watching the gesticulating groups of Californians as a gambler watches the faces of his opponents, and the little weather-signs did not reassure him.

“Well, there’s good money to be picked out of this crowd,” said Bill, pushing his hands deep into his pockets.  “I can’t understand their lingo, but faces talk one language; and I don’t care what’s the color of the skin.  I’ve been reading what’s wrote in their eyes and around their mouths.  I can get big odds on Jack, here, if I can find somebody to talk for me.  How about it, Jack?  I’ve heard some say there’s more than the gold medal and a horse up on this lariat game.  I’ve heard some say you two have put your necks in the jack-pot.  On the quiet, what do you reckon you’re going to do to the greaser?”