“Good!” said Incarnacion. “Now, if Don Clarencio will examine the American spur, he will see--what? A few horse-hairs twisted and caught in the sharp points of the rowel. Good! Is it the hair of the horse that Senor rode? Clearly not; and in truth not. It is too long for the flanks and belly of the horse; it is not the same color as the tail and the mane. How comes it there? It comes from the twisted horsehair rope of a riata, and not from the braided cowhide thongs of the regular lasso of a vacquero. The lasso slips not much, but holds; the riata slips much and strangles.” “But Mr. Peyton was not strangled,” said Clarence quickly. “No, for the noose of the riata was perhaps large,--who knows? It might have slipped down his arms, pinioned him, and pulled him off. Truly!--such has been known before. Then on the ground it slipped again, or he perhaps worked it off to his feet where it caught on his spur, and then he was dragged until the boot came off, and behold! he was dead.” This had been Clarence's own theory of the murder, but he had only half confided it to Incarnacion. He silently examined the spur with the accusing horse-hair, and placed it in his desk. Incarnacion continued:-- “There is not a vacquero in the whole rancho who has a horse-hair riata. We use the braided cowhide; it is heavier and stronger; it is for the bull and not the man. The horse-hair riata comes from over the range--south.” There was a dead silence, broken only by the drumming of the rain upon the roof of the veranda. Incarnacion slightly shrugged his shoulders. “Don Clarencio does not know the southern county? Francisco Robles, cousin of the 'Sisters,'--he they call 'Pancho,'--comes from the south. Surely when Don Clarencio bought the title he saw Francisco, for he was the steward?” “I dealt only with the actual owners and through my bankers in San Francisco,” returned Clarence abstractedly. Incarnacion looked through the yellow corners of his murky eyes at his master. “Pedro Valdez, who was sent away by Senor Peyton, is the foster-brother of Francisco. They were much together. Now that Francisco is rich from the gold Don Clarencio paid for the title, they come not much together. But Pedro is rich, too. Mother of God! He gambles and is a fine gentleman. He holds his head high,--even over the Americanos he gambles with. Truly, they say he can shoot with the best of them. He boasts and swells himself, this Pedro! He says if all the old families were like him, they would drive those western swine back over the mountains again.” Clarence raised his eyes, caught a subtle yellow flash from Incarnacion's, gazed at him suddenly, and rose. “I don't think I have ever seen him,” he said quietly. “Thank you for bringing me the spur. But keep the knowledge of it to yourself, good Nascio, for the present.”