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“Well,” said the foreman very seriously, “it’s jest this: You see, the colonel is mighty sweet on that Spanish woman Ramierez up on the hill yonder. It was her mustang he was ridin’ when the row happened near her house.”

“Well?” said the editor, with disconcerting placidity.

“Well,”–hesitated the foreman, “you see, they’re a bad lot, those Greasers, especially the Ramierez, her husband.”

The editor knew that the foreman was only echoing the provincial prejudice against this race, which he himself had always combated. Ramierez kept a fonda or hostelry on a small estate,–the last of many leagues formerly owned by the Spanish grantee, his landlord,–and had a wife of some small coquetries and redundant charms. Gambling took place at the fonda, and it was said the common prejudice against the Mexican did not, however, prevent the American from trying to win his money.

“Then you think Ramierez was jealous of the colonel? But in that case he would have knifed him,–Spanish fashion,–and not without a struggle.”

“There’s more ways they have o’ killin’ a man than that; he might hev been dragged off his horse by a lasso and choked,” said the foreman darkly.

The editor had heard of this vaquero method of putting an enemy hors de combat; but it was a clumsy performance for the public road, and the brutality of its manner would have justified the colonel in exposing it.

The foreman saw the incredulity expressed in his face, and said somewhat aggressively, “Of course I know ye don’t take no stock in what’s said agin the Greasers, and that’s what the boys know, and what they said, and that’s the reason why I thought I oughter tell ye, so that ye mightn’t seem to be always favorin’ ’em.”

The editor’s face darkened slightly, but he kept his temper and his good humor. “So that to prove that the ‘Clarion’ is unbiased where the Mexicans are concerned, I ought to make it their only accuser, and cast a doubt on the American’s veracity?” he said, with a smile.

“I don’t mean that,” said the foreman, reddening. “Only I thought ye might–as ye understand these folks’ ways–ye might be able to get at them easy, and mebbe make some copy outer the blamed thing. It would just make a stir here, and be a big boom for the ‘Clarion.'”

“I’ve no doubt it would,” said the editor dryly. “However, I’ll make some inquiries; but you might as well let ‘the boys’ know that the ‘Clarion’ will not publish the colonel’s secret without his permission. Meanwhile,” he continued, smiling, “if you are very anxious to add the functions of a reporter to your other duties and bring me any discoveries you may make, I’ll–look over your copy.”

He good humoredly nodded, and took up his pen again,–a hint at which the embarrassed foreman, under cover of hitching up his trousers, awkwardly and reluctantly withdrew.

It was with some natural youthful curiosity, but no lack of loyalty to Colonel Starbottle, that the editor that evening sought this “war-horse of the Democracy,” as he was familiarly known, in his invalid chamber at the Palmetto Hotel. He found the hero with a bandaged ear and–perhaps it was fancy suggested by the story of the choking–cheeks more than usually suffused and apoplectic. Nevertheless, he was seated by the table with a mint julep before him, and welcomed the editor by instantly ordering another.

The editor was glad to find him so much better.

“Gad, sir, no bones broken, but a good deal of ‘possum scratching about the head for such a little throw like that. I must have slid a yard or two on my left ear before I brought up.”

“You were unconscious from the fall, I believe.”

“Only for an instant, sir–a single instant! I recovered myself with the assistance of a No’the’n gentleman–a Mr. Parmlee–who was passing.”

“Then you think your injuries were entirely due to your fall?”

The colonel paused with the mint julep halfway to his lips, and set it down. “Sir!” he ejaculated, with astounded indignation.