Ah, so that was the reason. Don Tiburcio de Garcia had a bit of pride himself. This open flouting did not soothe his vanity. _Muy bien!_ With a deep ironic bow he wheeled, crossed the floor, and stood directly before the Americanita. Like a delicately tinted saint in a niche she was; sweet, remote, white and golden beyond any woman he had ever seen. His attention was one of sheer deference and gallantry. Just as he reached her, however, the girl rose and laid her hand on the arm proffered by Steven Mercer. They moved away. The room was buzzing, for of all the flirtations brewing and sizzling at the _baile_ this double one was the most conspicuous and exciting. Santa Fe was becoming used to the rough advances of the trappers, half-filled with drink, drunk with music and play and the heady response of plump señoritas with flashing eyes and teeth. Yesterday they had faced death on the Trail; tomorrow or next week they would again be claimed by mountain or desert; but tonight was playtime, dangerous playtime. There were always knifings and bull fights before a _baile_ was over. Ceran St. Vrain stood near the door. “Are you dancing any more?” he asked as Steven and Hope passed. “Just once. With the Señorita Lopez, I hope,” Steven replied. “Is there anything that you wished?” “Don’t do it. Don’t do it!” warned St. Vrain in a low voice. “Stay on the safe side. And don’t even promenade with Miss Bragdon any more. Young Lopez is wild. He’d knife you so easy as not. There’ll be trouble before the evening’s over. Remember, we don’t want to land in the _carcel_.” A threat was enough to set Steven at defiance. What, not dance with whom he chose! He looked towards the spot where the Señorita Lopez had been sitting; he was sure she would valse with him. But the music had already struck up a wilder note and she had already risen to take the arm of a native gallant. It was a round dance playing. Steven brought Hope to her seat, and as he turned about Consuelo danced past him and stared straight past his nose without a glance of recognition. Don Tiburcio appeared at his elbow at this moment, demanding, after the manner of their world, an introduction to the American señorita. She laid her hand in his and he bowed over it with what English he could muster. Consuelo, whirling by with her partner again, looked full into Steven’s eyes with an expression that he could not understand. The round dance was forming, swinging up and down the hall. Steven caught a Mexican maiden and swung her, too, planning to catch Consuelo in partners’ change. Consuelo came nearer; another couple to swing, and they would meet. Consuelo’s heart pounded, and her outstretched hand met--that of Manuel--eager, hot, his face came unpleasantly near. Steven had dropped completely out of the dance, and all that could be seen of him was his back, disappearing through the door.