La Laguna Seca, San Vincente, Las Uvas sent
their quota of vaqueros, each headed by a majordomo and accompanied by
embaladors with the camp equipment and supplies packed upon steady-going
little mustangs. The bell-mares of the various herds jangled a chorus of
pleasant discords with their little, iron bells. The scent of the
mustard rose pungently under the trampling hoofs. At dusk, the
camp-fires blinked at one another through the purpling shadows; and the
vaqueros, stretched lazily upon their saddle blankets in the glow,
stilled the night noises beneath the pleasant murmur of their voices
while they talked. From the camp of the San Vincente riders rose a voice
beautifully clear and sweet, above the subdued clamor.
Dade was listening to the song and dreaming a little while he listened,
with his head lying cradled in his clasped hands and his face to the
stars, when the group around the next camp-fire tittered and broke into
an occasional laugh. Then a question was called to whoever might be
within hearing:
"Who's the best vaquero in California?"
"Jack Allen, the gringo!" shouted a dozen voices, so that every camp
must hear. Then came jeering laughter from every camp save one, the camp
of the Picardo vaqueros.
Valencia's dark head lifted from the red and green blanket beyond the
blaze; and Dade, watching, could see his profile sharply defined in the
yellow light of the fire, as he stared toward the offending camp.
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