Senor Allen is lucky to get off so easily."
Jack held a match unlighted in his fingers while he studied the face
of Jose. The tone of him had jarred, but his features were wiped clean
of any expression save faint boredom; and his fingers, plucking a
plaintive fragment of a fandango from the strings, belied the sarcasm
Jack had suspected. Don Andres himself, at that moment coming eagerly
across from the hut at the end of the row, saved the necessity of
replying.
"Welcome home, amigo mio!" cried the don, hurrying up the steps,
sombrero in hand. "Never has sight of a horse pleased me as when Diego
led yours to the stable. Thrice welcome--since you bring your friend
to honor my poor household with his presence."
No need to measure guardedly those tones, or that manner. Don Andres
Picardo was as clean, as honest, and as kindly as the sunshine that
mellowed the dim distances behind him. The two came to their feet
unconsciously and received his handclasp with inner humility.
Don Andres held Dade's hand a shade longer than the most gracious
hospitality demanded, while his eyes dwelt solicitously upon his face,
browned near to the shade of a native son of those western slopes.
"I heard of your brave deed, Senor--of how you rode into the midst of
the Vigilantes and snatched your friend from under the very shadow of
the oak. I did not hear that you escaped their vengeance afterwards,
and I feared greatly lest harm had befallen you.
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