"The blue-eyed one--did you find from the vaqueros why he did not come?
He need not have been afraid of me--not if his fame was earned honestly." If his tone were patronizing, Jose perhaps had some excuse, since Fame had not altogether passed him by with face averted.
"Part of the way he came, and turned back.

The vaqueros do not know why, except Valencia.

And Valencia--he is growing a gringo heart, like the patron.

He will speak nothing but boasts of what that blue-eyed one can do.

Me, I came near fighting with Valencia; only he would not do anything but smile foolishly, when I told him what I think of traitors like himself." "Let him smile," advised Jose, "while he may." Which was not a threat, in spite of its resemblance to one, but rather a vague reference to the specter of trouble that stalks all men as a fox stalks a quail, and might some day wipe that broad smile from the face of Valencia, as it had swept all the gladness from his own.
He went back and smoked a final cigarette in Dade's company; and if he said little, his silences held no hint of antagonism.