become a panic elsewhere. Judge Peyton, riding near the gateway of his
rancho, was suddenly confronted by the spectacle of one of his vacqueros
driving on before him the two lassoed and dusty ponies, with a face that
broke into violent gesticulating at his master's quick interrogation.

"Ah! Mother of God! It was an evil day! For the bronchos had run away,
upset the buggy, and had only been stopped by a brave Americano of an
ox-team, whose lasso was even now around their necks, to prove it, and
who had been dragged a matter of a hundred varas, like a calf, at their
heels. The senoritas,--ah! had he not already said they were safe, by
the mercy of Jesus!--picked up by the coach, and would be here at this
moment."

"But where was Pedro all the time? What was he doing?" demanded Peyton,
with a darkened face and gathering anger.

The vacquero looked at his master, and shrugged his shoulders
significantly. At any other time Peyton would have remembered that
Pedro, as the reputed scion of a decayed Spanish family, and claiming
superiority, was not a favorite with his fellow-retainers. But the
gesture, half of suggestion, half of depreciation, irritated Peyton
still more.

"Well, where is this American who DID something when there wasn't a
man among you all able to stop a child's runaway ponies?" he said
sarcastically. "Let me see him."

The vacquero became still more deprecatory.

"Ah! He had driven on with his team towards San Antonio. He would not