men who did his fighting for him, yes.  Burros, that’s what they are.  Burros, that have no mind for thinking, only to do what is tol’.  And if troubles come, all Mexicans in these country should fight for their homes, you bet.  All these Mexicans ought to know what’s good for them.  They got no business to fight gainst these American gov’ment, not much, they don’t.  They come here because they don’t like it no more in Mexico where no poor man can have a home like here.  You bet.

Estan Medina was willing to talk a long while on that subject.  His mother, sitting just inside the doorway, nodded her head now and then and smiled just as though she knew what her son was saying; proud of his high learning, she was.  He could talk with the Americanos, and they listened with respect.  Their language he could speak, better than they could speak it themselves.  Did she not know?  She herself could now and then understand what he was talking about, he spoke so plainly.

“You’ve got new neighbors, I see,” Starr observed irrelevantly, when Estan paused to relight his cigarette.  “Over at Johnny Calvert’s,” he added, when Estan looked at him inquiringly.

“Oh-h, yes!  That poor boy and girl!  You seen them?”

“I just came from there,” Starr informed him easily.  “What brought them away out here?”

“They not tell, then?  That man Calvert, he’s a bad one, sure!  He don’ stay no more—­too lazy, I think, to watch his sheeps from the coyotes, and says they’re stole.  He comes here telling me I got his sheeps—­yes.  We quarrel a little bit, maybe.  I don’ like to be called thief, you bet.  He’s big mouth, that feller—­no brains, aitre.  Then he goes some_where_, and he tells what fine rancho he’s got in Sunlight Basin.  These boy and girl, they buy.  That’s too bad.  They don’ belong on these desert, sure.  W’at they know about hard life?  Pretty soon they get tired, I think, and go back where comes from.  That boy—­what for help he be to that girl?  Jus’ boy—­not so old my brother Luis.  Can’t ride horse; goes up and down, up an’ down like he’s back goes through he’s hat.  What that girl do?  Jus’ slim, big-eye girl with soft hand and sickness of lungs.  Babes, them boy and girl.  Whan Calvert he should be shot dead for let such inocentes be fool like that.”

“Where is Johnny Calvert?”

“Him?  He’s gone, sure!  Not come back, I bet you!  He’s got money—­them babes got rancho—­” Estan lifted his shoulders eloquently.

“What are they going to do, now they’re here?” Starr abstractedly wiped off the ash collar of his cigarette against the edge of the couch.

“Quien sabe?” countered Estan, and lifted his shoulders again.  “I think pretty quick they go.”

Starr looked at his watch, yawned, and rose with much evident reluctance.  “Same here,” he said.  “I’ve got to make San Bonito in time for that Eastbound.  You have the sheep in the stockyards by Saturday, will you?  If I’m not there myself, I’ll leave the money with Johnson at the express office.  Soon as the sheep’s inspected, you can go there and get it. Addios.  Mucho gracias, Senora.”