"Possibly, O Senor Miguel Dominguez Perez (a profound courtesy here), it
is as thou sayest. Drunkard Concho may be; but, drunk or sober, he never
turned his back on his friend--or--(the words grated a little here)--his
enemy."
Miguel would have replied, but Victor was ready. "Fool," he said,
pinching his arm, "'tis an old friend. And--and--the application is
still to be filled up. Are you crazy?"
But on this point Miguel was not, and with the revenge of a rival added
to his other instincts, he permitted Victor to lead him away.
On their return to the fonda, they found Master Manuel too far gone with
aguardiente, and a general animosity to the average Americano, to be
of any service. So they worked alone, with pen, ink, and paper, in the
stuffy, cigarrito-clouded back room of the fonda. It was midnight, two
hours after Concho had started, that Miguel clapped spurs to his
horse for the village of Tres Pinos, with an application to Governor
Micheltorena for a grant to the "Rancho of the Red Rocks" comfortably
bestowed in his pocket.
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