Once again a tragic scene had been enacted under the shade of the catalpa tree before the Farrel hacienda.  The shock of a terrible, unexpected trend of events heralded by the arrival of Pablo Artelan and his victim had, seemingly, paralyzed John Parker mentally and physically.  He felt again a curious cold, weak, empty feeling in his breast.  It was the concomitant of defeat; he had felt it twice before when he had been overwhelmed and mangled by the wolves of Wall Street.

He was almost nauseated.  Not at sight of the dusty, bloody, shapeless bundle that lay at the end of Pablo’s riata, but with the realization that, indirectly, he had been responsible for all of this.

Pablo’s shrill, agonized denunciation had fallen upon deaf ears, once the old majordomo had conveyed to Parker the information of Don Mike’s death.

“The rope—­take it off!” he protested to the unconscious Pablo.  “It’s cutting him in two.  He looks like a link of sausage!  Ugh!  A Jap!  Horrible!  I’m smeared—­I can’t explain—­nobody in this country will believe me—­Pablo will kill me—­”

He sat down on the bench under the catalpa tree, covered his face with his hands and closed his eyes.  When he ventured again to look up, he observed that Pablo, in falling from his horse, had caught one huge Mexican spur on the cantle of his saddle and was suspended by the heel, grotesquely, like a dead fowl.  The black mare, a trained roping horse, stood patiently, her feet braced a little, still keeping a strain on the riata.

Parker roused himself.  With his pocket knife he cut the spur strap, eased the majordomo to the ground, carried him to the bench and stretched him out thereon.  Then, grasping the mare by the bridle, he led her around the adobe wall; he shuddered inwardly as he heard the steady, slithering sound behind her.

“Got to get that Thing out of the way,” he mumbled.  The great barn door was open; from within he could hear his chauffeur whistling.  So he urged the mare to a trot and got past the barn without having been observed.  An ancient straw stack stood in the rear of the barn and in the shadow of this he halted, removed the riata from the pommel, dragged the body close to the stack, and with a pitchfork he hastily covered it with old, weather-beaten straw.  All of this he accomplished without any purpose more definite than a great desire to hide from his wife and from his daughter this offense which Pablo had thrust upon him.

He led the black mare into the barn and tied her.  Then he returned to Pablo.

The old Indian was sitting up.  At sight of Parker he commenced to curse bitterly, in Spanish and English, this invader who had brought woe upon the house of Farrel.  But John Parker was a white man.

“Shut up, you saddle-colored old idol,” he roared, and shook Pablo until the latter’s teeth rattled together.  “If the mischief is done it can’t be helped—­and it was none of my making.  Pull yourself together and tell me where this killing occurred.  We’ve got to get Don Miguel’s body.”