He shrugged his shoulders, threw away his half smoked cigarette, and went on.

“One time a padre who have the zeal excessif for the saving of soul, when he find the heathen, who is a young girl, have escape the soldiers, he of himself have seize the lasso and flung it!  He is lucky; he catch her—­but look you!  She stop not—­she still fly!  She not only fly, but of a surety she drag the good padre with her!  He cannot loose himself, for his riata is fast to the saddle; the dragons cannot help, for he is drag so fast.  On the instant she have gone—­and so have the padre.  For why?  It is not a young girl he have lasso, but the devil!  You comprehend—­it is a punishment—­a retribution—­he is feenish!  And forever!

“For every year he must come back a spirit—­on a spirit hoss—­and swing the lasso, and make as if to catch the heathen.  He is condemn ever to play his little game; now there is no heathen more to convert, he catch what he can.  My grandfather have once seen him—­it is night and a storm, and he pass by like a flash!  My grandfather like it not—­he is much dissatisfied!  My uncle have seen him, too, but he make the sign of the cross, and the lasso have fall to the side, and my uncle have much gratification.  A vaquero of my father and a peon of my cousin have both been picked up, lassoed, and dragged dead.

“Many peoples have died of him in the strangling.  Sometime he is seen, sometime it is the woman only that one sees—­sometime it is but the hoss.  But ever somebody is dead—­strangle!  Of a truth, my friend, the gallant Starbottle and the ambitious Richards have just escaped!”

The editor looked curiously at his friend.  There was not the slightest suggestion of mischief or irony in his tone or manner; nothing, indeed, but a sincerity and anxiety usually rare with his temperament.  It struck him also that his speech had but little of the odd California slang which was always a part of his imitative levity.  He was puzzled.

“Do you mean to say that this superstition is well known?” he asked, after a pause.

“Among my people—­yes.”

“And do you believe in it?”

Enriquez was silent.  Then he arose, and shrugged his shoulders.  “Quien sabe?  It is not more difficult to comprehend than your story.”

He gravely put on his hat.  With it he seemed to have put on his old levity.  “Come, behold, it is a long time between drinks!  Let us to the hotel and the barkeep, who shall give up the smash of brandy and the julep of mints before the lasso of Friar Pedro shall prevent us the swallow!  Let us skiddadle!”

Mr. Grey returned to the “Clarion” office in a much more satisfied condition of mind.  Whatever faith he held in Enriquez’s sincerity, for the first time since the attack on Colonel Starbottle he believed he had found a really legitimate journalistic opportunity in the incident.  The legend and its singular coincidence with the outrages would make capital “copy.”