I had mounted my horse to start, well knowing it was useless to argue with an angry woman.  Esther had obediently retreated to the safety of the house, aware that her mother had a tongue and evidently willing to be spared its invective in my presence.  My horse was fidgeting about, impatient to be off, but I gave him the rowel and rode up to the gate, determined, if possible, to pour oil on the troubled waters.  “Mrs. McLeod,” said I, in humble tones, “possibly you take the correct view of this matter.  Miss Esther and I have only been acquainted a few months, and will soon forget each other.  Please take me in the house and let me tell her good-by.”

“No, sir.  Dinna set foot inside o’ this gate.  I hope ye know ye’re no wanted here.  There’s your road, the one leadin’ south, an’ ye’d better be goin’, I’m thinkin’.”

I held in the black and rode off in a walk.  This was the first clean knock-out I had ever met.  Heretofore I had been egotistical enough to hold my head rather high, but this morning it drooped.  Wolf seemed to notice it, and after the first mile dropped into an easy volunteer walk.  I never noticed the passing of time until we reached the river, and the black stopped to drink.  Here I unsaddled for several hours; then went on again in no cheerful mood.  Before I came within sight of Las Palomas near evening, my horse turned his head and nickered, and in a few minutes Uncle Lance and June Deweese galloped up and overtook me.  I had figured out several very plausible versions of my adventure, but this sudden meeting threw me off my guard—­and Lance Lovelace was a hard man to tell an undetected, white-faced lie.  I put on a bold front, but his salutation penetrated it at a glance.

“What’s the matter, Tom; any of your folks dead?”

“No.”

“Sick?”

“No.”

“Girl gone back on you?”

“I don’t think.”

“It’s the old woman, then?”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know that old dame.  I used to go over there occasionally when old man Donald was living, but the old lady—­excuse me!  I ought to have posted you, Tom, but I don’t suppose it would have done any good.  Brought your fiddle with you, I see.  That’s good.  I expect the old lady read my title clear to you.”

My brain must have been under a haze, for I repeated every charge she had made against him, not even sparing the accusation that he had remained out of the army and added to his brand by mavericking cattle.

“Did she say that?” inquired Uncle Lance, laughing.  “Why, the old hellion!  She must have been feeling in fine fettle!”

CHAPTER V

A PIGEON HUNT