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Jack blew three small smoke-rings with nice precision, watched them float and fade while he thought of a certain girl who had lately smiled upon him and in return had got smile for smile and said he guessed he'd stick to town life for a while. "Old Don Andres Picardo's a prince," argued Dade, "and he's got a rancho that's a paradise on earth.
"And who's old Manuel?" asked Jack petulantly, because of the pain in his feet and his own unpleasant memories of that day. "Don Andres Picardo's head vaquero. He camps here to keep an eye on the cattle. Some fellows from town have been butchering them right and left and doing a big business in beef, according to all accounts.
That poor devil knew how to train a horse, even if he didn't have any sense about whisky. I'll bet money couldn't have touched him if the man had been sober." He stopped in the doorway and looked up and down the street with open disgust. "Come on down to Picardo's, Jack; what the deuce is there here to hold you?
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