What mattered one steer, or even a fat cow, slain wastefully?
Were not thousands left?
But when tales reached him of cattle butchered by the hundred, and of beef that was being sold for an atrocious price in San Francisco, the old Spaniard was shocked into laying aside the traditions and placing some check upon the unmannerly "gringos" who so abused his generosity.
He established a camp just within the northern boundary of his land; and there he stationed his most efficient watch-dog, Manuel Sepulveda, with two vaqueros whose business it was to stop the depredations.
Meat for all who asked for meat, paid they in gold or in gratitude--that was their "patron's" order.

But they must ask.

And the vaqueros rode diligently from bay to mountain slopes, and each day their hatred of the Americanos grew deeper, as they watched over the herds of their loved patron, that the gringos might not steal that which they might, if they were not wolves, have for the asking.
The firelight in the tule-thatched hut of Manuel Sepulveda winked facetiously at the black fog that peered in at the open door.

A night wind from the north crept up, parted the fog like a black curtain and whispered something which set the flames a-dancing as they listened.
The fog swung back jealously to hear what it was, and the wind went away to whisper its wonder-tale to the trees that rustled astonishment and nodded afterward to one another in approval, like the arrant gossips they were.

The chill curtain fell straight and heavy again before the door, so that the firelight shone dimly through its folds; but not before Dade, riding at random save for the trust he put in the sure homing instinct of his horse, caught the brief gleam of light and sighed thankfully.
"We'll stop with old Manuel to-night," he announced cheerfully.
"Here's his cabin, just ahead." "And who's old Manuel ?" asked Jack petulantly, because of the pain in his feet and his own unpleasant memories of that day.
"Don Andres Picardo's head vaquero.