The well-thrown pebble struck that part of the burro’s anatomy at which it was aimed; the dog barked; and Croesus—­with an indignant jerk of his head, and a flirt of his tail—­started forward.  At the fork of the trail, he paused.  The two men waited with breathless interest.  With an air of accepting the responsibility placed upon him, the burro whirled and trotted down the narrow path that led to the floor of the canyon below.  Laughing, the men followed—­but far enough in the rear to permit their leader to choose his own way when they should reach the wagon road at the foot of the mountain wall.  Without an instant’s hesitation, Croesus turned down the road—­quickening his pace, almost, into a trot.

“By George!” ejaculated the novelist, “he acts like he knew where he was going.”

“He’s taking you at your word,” returned the artist.  “Look at him go!  Evidently, he’s still under the inspiration of your oratory.”

The burro had broken into a ridiculous, little gallop that caused the frying-pan and coffee-pot, lashed on the outside of the pack, to rattle merrily.  Splashing through the creek, he disappeared in the dark shadow of a thicket of alders and willows, where the road crosses a tiny rivulet that flows from a spring a hundred yards above.  Climbing out of this gloomy hollow, the road turns sharply to the left, and the men hurried on to overtake their four-footed guide before he should be too long out of their sight.  Just at the top of the little rise, before rounding the turn, they stopped.  A few feet to the right of the road, with his nose at an old gate, stood Croesus.  Nor would he heed Czar’s bark commanding him to go on.

On the other side of the fence, an old and long neglected apple orchard, a tumble-down log barn, and the wreck of a house with the fireplace and chimney standing stark and alone, told the story.  The place was one of those old ranches, purchased by the Power Company for the water rights, and deserted by those who once had called it home.  From the gate, ancient wagon tracks, overgrown with weeds, led somewhere around the edge of the orchard and were lost in the tangle of trees and brush on its lower side.

The two men looked at each other in laughing surprise.  The burro, turning his head, gazed at them over his shoulder, inquiringly, as much as to say, “Well, what’s the matter now?  Why don’t you come along?”

“When in doubt, ask Croesus,” said the artist, gravely.

Conrad Lagrange calmly opened the gate.

Promptly, the burro trotted ahead.  Following the ancient weed-grown tracks, he led them around the lower end of the orchard; crossed a little stream; and, turning again, climbed a gentle rise of open, grassy land behind the orchard; stopping at last, with an air of having accomplished his purpose, in a beautiful little grove of sycamore trees that bordered a small cienaga.