There was no mistaking Judge Peyton's manner, even if the reason of
it was not so clear to Pedro's mind, and his hot Latin blood flew
instinctively to his face. But for that, he might have shown some
concern or asked an explanation. As it was, he at once retorted with the
national shrug and the national half-scornful, half-lazy "Quien sabe?"

"Who knows?" repeated Peyton, hotly. "I do! She was thrown out of her
buggy through your negligence and infernal laziness! The ponies ran
away, and were stopped by a stranger who wasn't afraid of risking
his bones, while you were limping around somewhere like a slouching,
cowardly coyote."

The vacquero struggled a moment between blank astonishment and
inarticulate rage. At last he burst out:--

"I am no coyote! I was there! I saw no runaway!"

"Don't lie to me, sir!" roared Peyton. "I tell you the buggy was
smashed, the girls were thrown out and nearly killed"--He stopped
suddenly. The sound of youthful laughter had come from the bottom of the
lane, where Susy Peyton and Mary Rogers, just alighted from the coach,
in the reaction of their previous constrained attitude, were flying
hilariously into view. A slight embarrassment crossed Peyton's face; a
still deeper flush of anger overspread Pedro's sullen cheek.

Then Pedro found tongue again, his native one, rapidly, violently,
half incoherently. "Ah, yes! It had come to this. It seems he was not
a vacquero, a companion of the padrone on lands that had been his own
before the Americanos robbed him of it, but a servant, a lackey of
muchachas, an attendant on children to amuse them, or--why not?--an