The Colonel's kind old face was beaming with pleasure; and if Don Vincente had happened to be looking at him instead of staring obstinately at the stuffed owl, he might have been considerably surprised at the fact.
"What portion of the rancho is involved?" asked the Colonel.
"I have discussed that with the Señor Mills, and we have agreed that the rancheria will set things right."
"It would be a pity to lose the rancheria."
Don Vincente sighed.
"I shall regret the necessity; yes. In the old days it was the home of my people's Indians, before they scattered. It possesses historic and sentimental interest. But it can be the best spared."
The Colonel chuckled aloud. Don Vincente looked at him in surprise and a slight displeasure.
"See, old friend," cried the Colonel, "how fortunately these things turn out! It happens that just at this moment I have a sum of money by me that has come to me in an unexpected fashion"—Oh, sly but truth-telling old Colonel!—"just at this moment of your need! It is not as great as I would have it, perhaps it is not enough, but such as it is you are welcome to the loan of it."
Don Vincente's expression did not change, but a cloud seemed to lift in the depths of his melancholy black eyes.
"How much is it, amigo?" he asked, striving hard for a careless absence of haste.
"About fifteen thousand dollars."
Don Vincente's pent breath exhaled softly.
"Twelve thousand will be enough. I cannot refuse."
"Refuse! I should think not! It is what any neighbour would expect of any other. You shall pay me at your convenience—when the cattle are sold—at any time." The Colonel fumbled in his pocket and produced the roll of bills. Don Vincente received them and thrust them nonchalantly into a half open drawer.
"It shall be as you say, Ricardo; and thank you. My vaqueros tell me you have placed sheep on the Alisal. Is it your idea to make of that sierra a sheep range?"
