They
were still seated there when Valencia, having deposited his riding gear
at the saddle-hut, limped to the steps and stood with his sunny smile
upon his face and his sombrero brim trailing the dust. It seemed to
Valencia that the don was displeased; he read it in the set of his head,
in the hardness that was in his glance, in a certain inflexible quality
of his voice.
"Ah, Valencia," he said, rising as if the interruption was to put an end
to his lingering there, "you also seem to have ridden in haste from the
rodeo. Truly, I think that same rodeo has been but the breeding-ground
of gossip and ill-feeling, and is like to bear bitter fruit. Well, you
have a message, I'll warrant. What is it?"
Valencia's mien was respectful almost to the point of humility. "The
majordomo sent me with a letter, which I was to deliver into the hands
of the Senor Allen," he said simply. "My hope was that I might arrive
before Manuel"--he caught a flicker of wrath in the eyes of the don at
the name and smiled inwardly--"but the moonlight played tricks upon the
trail, and my caballo tripped upon a willow-branch and fell upon his
head so that his neck was twisted. I was forced to walk and carry the
saddle, and there were times when the cattle interrupted with their
foolish curiosity, and I must stop and set the riata hissing to frighten
them back, else they would perchance have trampled me. So I fear that I
arrive too late, Don Andres.
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