"What need have I for wealth, Loustalot? Does not Don Miguel provide
all things necessary for a happy existence?"

"I will give you twelve thousand. Do not be a fool, Artelan. Come; be
sensible and listen to reason."

"Silence, animal! Is not the blood of my brother on your head? One
word--"

"Fifteen thousand, Artelan. Quick. There is little time to--"

Pablo rode up beside him and quite deliberately smote the man heavily
across the mouth with the back of his hand.

"There will be no more talk of money," he commanded, tersely.

John Parker had finished writing his letters and was standing, with his
wife and the potato baron, in front of the hacienda when Pablo and his
prisoner rode into the yard. Thin rivulets of blood were trickling
from the Basque's nose and lips; his face was ashen with rage and
apprehension.

"Why, Loustalot, what has happened?" Parker cried, and stepped out to
intercept the gray gelding, but Pablo, riding behind, struck the gray
on the flank, and the animal bounded forward. But Parker was not to be
denied. He, too, leaped, seized the reins, and brought the animal to a
halt. Pablo glared at him hatefully; then, remembering that this man
was no longer an interloper, but an honored guest of the house of
Farrel, he removed his sombrero and bowed courteously.