“Wal, Flo, there you hit plumb center,” replied the old cattleman.  “An’ I couldn’t be gladder if he was my own son.”

X Don Carlos’s Vaqueros

Early the following morning Stewart, with a company of cowboys, departed for Don Carlos’s rancho.  As the day wore on without any report from him, Stillwell appeared to grow more at ease; and at nightfall he told Madeline that he guessed there was now no reason for concern.

“Wal, though it’s sure amazin’ strange,” he continued, “I’ve been worryin’ some about how we was goin’ to fire Don Carlos.  But Gene has a way of doin’ things.”

Next day Stillwell and Alfred decided to ride over Don Carlos’s place, taking Madeline and Florence with them, and upon the return trip to stop at Alfred’s ranch.  They started in the cool, gray dawn, and after three hours’ riding, as the sun began to get bright, they entered a mesquite grove, surrounding corrals and barns, and a number of low, squat buildings and a huge, rambling structure, all built of adobe and mostly crumbling to ruin.  Only one green spot relieved the bald red of grounds and walls; and this evidently was made by the spring which had given both value and fame to Don Carlos’s range.  The approach to the house was through a wide courtyard, bare, stony, hard packed, with hitching-rails and watering-troughs in front of a long porch.  Several dusty, tired horses stood with drooping heads and bridles down, their wet flanks attesting to travel just ended.

“Wal, dog-gone it, Al, if there ain’t Pat Hawe’s hoss I’ll eat it,” exclaimed Stillwell.

“What’s Pat want here, anyhow?” growled Alfred.

No one was in sight; but Madeline heard loud voices coming from the house.  Stillwell dismounted at the porch and stalked in at the door.  Alfred leaped off his horse, helped Florence and Madeline down, and, bidding them rest and wait on the porch, he followed Stillwell.

“I hate these Greaser places,” said Florence, with a grimace.  “They’re so mysterious and creepy.  Just watch now!  They’ll be dark-skinned, beady-eyed, soft-footed Greasers slip right up out of the ground!  There’ll be an ugly face in every door and window and crack.”

“It’s like a huge barn with its characteristic odor permeated by tobacco smoke,” replied Madeline, sitting down beside Florence.  “I don’t think very much of this end of my purchase.  Florence, isn’t that Don Carlos’s black horse over there in the corral?”

“It sure is.  Then the Don’s heah yet.  I wish we hadn’t been in such a hurry to come over.  There! that doesn’t sound encouraging.”

From the corridor came the rattling of spurs, tramping of boots, and loud voices.  Madeline detected Alfred’s quick notes when he was annoyed:  “We’ll rustle back home, then,” he said.  The answer came, “No!” Madeline recognized Stewart’s voice, and she quickly straightened up.  “I won’t have them in here,” went on Alfred.