"Another company has just been incorporated for the same location, I reckon." "Who are they ?" "Three Mexicans,--Pedro, Manuel, and Miguel, headed by that d----d cock-eyed Sydney Duck, Wiles." "Are they here ?" "Manuel and Miguel, only.

The others are over at Tres Pinos lally-gaging Roscommon and trying to rope him in to pay off their whisky bills at his grocery." "If that's so we needn't start before sunrise, for they're sure to get roaring drunk." And this legitimate successor of the grave Mexican Alcaldes, having thus delivered his impartial opinion, rode away.
Meanwhile, Concho the redoubtable, Concho the fortunate, spared neither riata nor spur.

The way was dark, the trail obscure and at times even dangerous, and Concho, familiar as he was with these mountain fastnesses, often regretted his sure-footed Francisquita.

"Care not, O Concho," he would say to himself, "'tis but a little while, only a little while, and thou shalt have another Francisquita to bless thee.
Eh, skipjack, there was a fine music to thy dancing.

A dollar for an ounce,--'tis as good as silver, and merrier." Yet for all his good spirits he kept a sharp lookout at certain bends of the mountain trail; not for assassins or brigands, for Concho was physically courageous, but for the Evil One, who, in various forms, was said to lurk in the Santa Cruz Range, to the great discomfort of all true Catholics.