"If the Senor Allen were here, there would be no jeering."
"And for that will I fight them all!" Valencia twisted his arm a little,
in the hope that Dade would let go his wrist. "Ah, Senor! Shall a man
not be true to his friends?"
"Si, he shall be true, and he shall be sensible. Is the Senor Jack a
weakling, that he cannot fight for himself?"
"But he is not here! If he were--" The tone of him gloated over the
picture of what would happen in that case.
"There shall be no fighting." If Dade's voice was quiet, it did not
carry the impression of weakness, or indecision. "Come to your own fire,
Valencia. If it is necessary to fight for the Senor Allen--I am also his
friend."
"You are right. There shall be no fighting." Dade started and glanced at
Jose, standing beside him. "If the Senor Allen thinks himself the best,
surely it is I, who hold the medalla that calls me el vaquero supremo,
who have the right to question his boast; not you, amigos!"
"Who's the best vaquero, the bravest and the best in California?"
queried a voice--the voice of the singer, who had come up with others to
see what was going on here. And at his elbow another made answer boldly:
"Don Jose Pacheco!"
Jose smiled and lifted his shoulders deprecatingly at the tribute, while
fifty voices shouted loyally his name. Dade, pressing his hand upon
Valencia's shoulder, led him back into the dancing shadows that lay
between the fires.
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