Pablo, too polite to argue with a guest, merely bowed and smiled
deprecatingly.

"My boss, hee's tell me put thees fellow in the calaboose. If trouble
come from thees--well, Don Miguel have the fault, not Pablo Artelan.
If the _señor_ please for let go the gray horse--no?"

"Farrel has gone to El Toro to attach my bank-account and my sheep,"
the Basque explained in a whisper, leaning low over the gray's neck.
"His father had an old judgment against me. When I thought young
Farrel dead, I dared do business--in my own name--understand? Now, if
he collects, you've lost the Rancho Palomar--help me, for God's sake,
Parker!"

Parker's hand fell away from the reins.

"I have no sympathy for you, Loustalot," he replied, coldly. "If you
have stolen this horse, you must pay the penalty. I shall not help
you. This is no affair of mine." And he stepped aside and waved
Loustalot back into Pablo's possession, who thanked him politely and
rode away round the hacienda wall. Three minutes later, Loustalot, his
hands unbound, was safe under lock and key in the settlement-room, and
Pablo, rifle in lap, sat on a box outside the door and rolled a
brown-paper cigarette.

Throughout the preceding colloquy, Mrs. Parker had said nothing. When
Pablo and his prisoner had disappeared, she asked her husband:

"What did that man say to you? He spoke in such a low tone I couldn't