Sandridge rode down to the _jacal_ of Perez. The sun was low,
and the broad shade of the great pear thicket already covered the
grass-thatched hut. The goats were enclosed for the night in a brush
corral near by. A few kids walked the top of it, nibbling the chaparral
leaves. The old Mexican lay upon a blanket on the grass, already in a
stupor from his mescal, and dreaming, perhaps, of the nights when he and
Pizarro touched glasses to their New World fortunes--so old his wrinkled
face seemed to proclaim him to be. And in the door of the _jacal_ stood
Tonia. And Lieutenant Sandridge sat in his saddle staring at her like a
gannet [68] agape at a sailorman.

[FOOTNOTE 68: gannet--a large sea bird]

The Cisco Kid was a vain person, as all eminent and successful
assassins are, and his bosom would have been ruffled had he known that
at a simple exchange of glances two persons, in whose minds he had
been looming large, suddenly abandoned (at least for the time) all
thought of him.

Never before had Tonia seen such a man as this. He seemed to be made
of sunshine and blood-red tissue and clear weather. He seemed to
illuminate the shadow of the pear when he smiled, as though the sun
were rising again. The men she had known had been small and dark. Even
the Kid, in spite of his achievements, was a stripling no larger than
herself, with black, straight hair and a cold, marble face that
chilled the noonday.

As for Tonia, though she sends description to the poorhouse, let her
make a millionaire of your fancy. Her blue-black hair, smoothly