So he led him, a shaken, gasping, disarmed antagonist, across the little space that separated them from where Don Andres and four other Spanish gentlemen sat before the middle gate of the corral.
"Bravo!" cried a sweet, girl voice; and a rose, blood-red and heavy with perfume, fell at Jack's feet.

He gave it one cold glance and let it lie.
In another moment the black horse crushed it heedlessly beneath his hoof, as Jack turned to the judges.
"Senors, I bring you Don Jose Pacheco." So suddenly had the contest ended that those riders who helped to form the riata fence stood still in their places, as if another round had yet to be fought.

Beyond the pistol shot and the girl voice crying well done, the audience was quiet, waiting.
Then Jose, sitting spent upon his horse, lifted a hand that shook weakly.

His fingers fumbled at his breast, and he held out the shining medal of gold--the medal with diamonds prisoning the sunlight so that the trinket flashed in his hand.
"Senor," he said huskily, "the medalla--it is yours." Jack looked at him; looked at the bent faces of the frowning judges; looked up at Teresita, watching the two with red lips parted and breath coming quickly; looked again queerly at Jose, gasping still, and holding out to him the medalla oro.

Jack did a good deal of thinking in a very short space of time.
"I don't want your medal," he said.