I don't want the beast; he's about fourteen years old and he's got a Roman nose to beat Caesar himself, and a bad eye and a wicked heart." "Dios!" murmured Manuel over the list of equine shortcomings and took a large, relieved bite of tortilla and beans.

The senor was pleased to jest with a poor vaquero, but the senor would doubtless explain.

He chewed luxuriously and waited, his black eyes darting from this face which he knew and liked, to that strange one of the blue eyes and the hair that was like the dullest of dull California gold.
"I don't like that caballo," went on Dade, helping himself to meat, "and so I'd hate like the deuce to be hung for stealing him; sabe ?" Manuel licked a finger before he spread his hands to show how completely he failed to understand.

"But if the caballo does not please the senor, why then did the senor steal--" "You see, I wanted to bring my partner--Senor Jack Allen--down here with me.

And he was riding the caballo, and he couldn't get off--" Manuel swore a Spanish oath politely, to please his guest who wished to amaze him.
"Because he was tied on." Dade failed just there to keep a betraying hardness out of his voice.