“I guess you’re right,” Jack assented, after a meditative pause.  “He just worshiped that poor little woman.”

Beyond that, neither of them attempted to put into speech the tragedy; it was beyond the poor words we have thus far coined for our needs, like many another thing that happens in these lives we live.  They waited a little while longer, wondering what they could or should do.

Mrs. Jerry lay easily where she had been placed by the man who loved her.  The killers had been killed by the same hand that laid her deep, in her faded, patchwork quilt.  There seemed nothing further to be done.

But Valencia, when he had ridden a thoughtful half-mile, did think of something.

“Me, I shall give ten pesos of the gold I won yesterday upon the duelo,” he said, glancing back at the grim little cabin, “that mass may be said for the repose of the Senora Seem’son’s soul.  For thus will sleep come easier to me, Senors.  And you?”

“I think, Valencia, if I were going to say any prayers, they’d be said for Jerry,” Dade told him.  “He needs ’em worse than she does.”

“Oh, come on, Dade; let’s be getting out of this valley!” Jack urged irritably.  “And I hope,” he added, “I’ll never see the place again!”

“But, Senor!” Valencia rode alongside to protest almost tearfully, “The valley, it is not to be blame.  Saw you ever a sweeter land than this?” He flung his arm outward to include the whole beautiful expanse of it.  “The valley, it is glorious!  Am I not right?  Blame not the beautiful land, Senor, for the trouble that has come; for trouble will find a man out, though he climb the loneliest mountain peak and hide himself among the rocks there!  And the valley—­Senors, the valley will hold friends that are true to thee.”

Jack flushed at the reproach; flushed and owned himself wrong.  “I’ll remember the friends,” he said.  “And I’ll forget the things that hurt; I’m a selfish brute—­whee-ee!  I should say!” He pulled up as short as Solano would let him, and stared from Dade to Valencia with guilty eyes.

“Diego—­I forgot that Injun, Dade; and next to you, I believe he’s the best friend I’ve got on earth!  I was so wrapped up in my own bruises that I clean overlooked something that I ought to be mighty grateful for.  Dade, do you think he’d like to go along to the mine?  You know his wife died a few months ago, and he’s kind of alone; do you think he’d go?”

“I think the chance to go would look like a ticket to glory,” Dade assured him sententiously.

Whereupon Jack dismounted, that he might write a few lines as he had written the note to Bill Wilson, a couple of months before:  with a leaf from his memorandum book and a bullet for pencil.

“Give that to Don Andres, will you, Valencia?  It’s to ask how much is Diego’s debt, and to say that I’ll pay it if the peon wants to come with me.  We’ll wait in town until we hear; perhaps Don Andres will let you come up with Diego—­that is, if Diego wants to come.  You ask him, Valencia.”