Pesita had openly sworn to rid Mexico of the gringo--to
kill on sight every American who fell into his hands. And
what could Grayson do in case of a determined attack upon
the rancho? It is true he had a hundred men--laborers and
vaqueros, but scarce a dozen of these were Americans, and
the rest would, almost without exception, follow the inclinations
of consanguinity in case of trouble.
To add to Grayson's irritability he had just lost his
bookkeeper, and if there was one thing more than any other that
Grayson hated it was pen and ink. The youth had been a
"lunger" from Iowa, a fairly nice little chap, and entirely
suited to his duties under any other circumstances than those
which prevailed in Mexico at that time. He was in mortal
terror of his life every moment that he was awake, and at last
had given in to the urge of cowardice and resigned. The day
previous he had been bundled into a buckboard and driven
over to the Mexican Central which, at that time, still was
operating trains--occasionally--between Chihuahua and Juarez.
His mind filled with these unpleasant thoughts, Grayson sat
at his desk in the office of the ranch trying to unravel the
riddle of a balance sheet which would not balance. Mixed
with the blue of the smoke from his briar was the deeper
azure of a spirited monologue in which Grayson was engaged.
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