Miguel, for the first time in two weeks, permitted himself the luxury of an expressive countenance. He gave Andy Green one quick, grateful look--and a smile, the like of which made the Happy Family quiver inwardly with instinctive sympathy.
"So you were there, too, eh?" Miguel exclaimed softly, and rose to greet him. "And that scrap in the alley--we sure had a hell of a time there for a few minutes, didn't we? Are you that tall fellow who kicked that squint-eyed greaser in the stomach? Muchos gracios, senor! They were piling on me three deep, right then, and I always believed they'd have got me, only for a tall vaquero I couldn't locate afterward." He smiled again that wonderful smile, which lighted the darkness of his eyes as with a flame, and murmured a sentence or two in Spanish.
"Did you get the spurs me and my friends sent you afterward?" asked Andy eagerly. "We heard about the Arizona boys giving you the saddle--and we raked high and low for them spurs. And, by gracious, they were beauts, too--did yuh get 'em?"
"I wear them every day I ride," answered Miguel, a peculiar, caressing note in his voice.
"I didn't know--we heard you had disappeared off the earth.
Why--"
Miguel laughed outright. "To fight a bull with bare hands is one thing, amigo," he said. "To take a chance on getting a knife stuck in your back is another. Those Mexicans--they don't love the man who crosses the river and makes of their bull-fights a plaything."
"That's right; only I thought, you being a--"
"Not a Mexican." Miguel's voice sharpened a trifle. "My father was Spanish, yes. My mother"--his eyes flashed briefly at the faces of the gaping Happy Family--"my mother was born in Ireland."
"And that sure makes a hard combination to beat," cried Andy heartily. He looked at the others--at all, that is, save Pink and Irish, who had disappeared. "Well, boys, I never thought I'd come home and find--"
"Miguel Rapponi," supplied the Native Son quickly. "As well forget that other name. And," he added with the shrug which the Happy Family had come to hate, "as well forget the story, also. I am not hungry for the feel of a knife in my back." He smiled again engagingly at Andy Green. It was astonishing how readily that smile had sprung to life with the warmth of a little friendship, and how pleasant it was, withal.
"Just as you say," Andy agreed, not trying to hide his admiration. "I guess nobody's got a better right to holler for silence. But--say, you sure delivered the goods, old boy! You musta read about it, you fellows; about the American puncher that went over the line and rode one of their crack bulls all round the ring, and then--" He stopped and looked apologetically at Miguel, in whose dark eyes there flashed a warning light. "I clean forgot," he confessed impulsively. "This meeting you here unexpectedly, like this, has kinda got me rattled, I guess.
But--I never saw yuh before in my life," he declared emphatically. "I don't know a darn thing about--anything that ever happened in an alley in the city of--oh, come on, old-timer; let's talk about the weather, or something safe!"
