“Well, where is this American who did something when there wasn’t a man among you all able to stop a child’s runaway ponies?” he said sarcastically.  “Let me see him.”

The vacquero became still more deprecatory.

“Ah!  He had driven on with his team towards San Antonio.  He would not stop to be thanked.  But that was the whole truth.  He, Incarnacion, could swear to it as to the Creed.  There was nothing more.”

“Take those beasts around the back way to the corral,” said Peyton, thoroughly enraged, “and not a word of this to any one at the casa, do you hear?  Not a word to Mrs. Peyton or the servants, or, by Heaven, I’ll clear the rancho of the whole lazy crew of you at once.  Out of the way there, and be off!”

He spurred his horse past the frightened menial, and dashed down the narrow lane that led to the gate.  But, as Incarnacion had truly said, “It was an evil day,” for at the bottom of the lane, ambling slowly along as he lazily puffed a yellow cigarette, appeared the figure of the erring Pedro.  Utterly unconscious of the accident, attributing the disappearance of his charges to the inequalities of the plain, and, in truth, little interested in what he firmly believed was his purely artificial function, he had even made a larger circuit to stop at a wayside fonda for refreshments.

Unfortunately, there is no more illogical sequence of human emotion than the exasperation produced by the bland manner of the unfortunate object who has excited it, although that very unconcern may be the convincing proof of innocence of intention.  Judge Peyton, already influenced, was furious at the comfortable obliviousness of his careless henchman, and rode angrily towards him.  Only a quick turn of Pedro’s wrist kept the two men from coming into collision.

“Is this the way you attend to your duty?” demanded Peyton, in a thick, suppressed voice, “Where is the buggy?  Where is my daughter?”

There was no mistaking Judge Peyton’s manner, even if the reason of it was not so clear to Pedro’s mind, and his hot Latin blood flew instinctively to his face.  But for that, he might have shown some concern or asked an explanation.  As it was, he at once retorted with the national shrug and the national half-scornful, half-lazy “Quien sabe?”

“Who knows?” repeated Peyton, hotly.  “I do!  She was thrown out of her buggy through your negligence and infernal laziness!  The ponies ran away, and were stopped by a stranger who wasn’t afraid of risking his bones, while you were limping around somewhere like a slouching, cowardly coyote.”

The vacquero struggled a moment between blank astonishment and inarticulate rage.  At last he burst out:—­

“I am no coyote!  I was there!  I saw no runaway!”

“Don’t lie to me, sir!” roared Peyton.  “I tell you the buggy was smashed, the girls were thrown out and nearly killed”—­He stopped suddenly.  The sound of youthful laughter had come from the bottom of the lane, where Susy Peyton and Mary Rogers, just alighted from the coach, in the reaction of their previous constrained attitude, were flying hilariously into view.  A slight embarrassment crossed Peyton’s face; a still deeper flush of anger overspread Pedro’s sullen cheek.