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.

The lips that smiled so often were drawn tight and thin; the nostrils flared like a frightened horse.

While the laughs were still cackling derision, Valencia jumped up and ran; and Dade, even before he sat up to look, knew where he was going.
At the fire where the question was put, a young fellow, whose heavy, black mustache prudently hid lips coarse and sneering, came to his feet like a dummy of a man and glared dazedly at his companions, as if their faces should tell him whose hand it was that gripped the braided collar of his jacket.