But I felt fresher and more natural as I stepped upon the platform.  The door of the lower building was open, and the old man was sitting beside the table, thumbing the leaves of a Bible with a look in his face as though he were hunting up prophecies against the “Greaser.”  I turned to enter, but my attention was attracted by a blanketed figure lying beside the house, on the platform.  The broad chest heaving with healthy slumber, and the open, honest face were familiar.  It was George, who had given up his bed to the stranger among his people.  I was about to wake him, but he lay so peaceful and quiet, I felt awed and hushed.  And I went to bed with a pleasant impression of his handsome face and tranquil figure soothing me to sleep.

I was awakened the next morning from a sense of lulled repose and grateful silence by the cheery voice of George, who stood beside my bed, ostentatiously twirling a riata, as if to recall the duties of the day to my sleep-bewildered eyes.  I looked around me.  The wind had been magically laid, and the sun shone warmly through the windows.  A dash of cold water, with an extra chill on from the tin basin, helped to brighten me.  It was still early, but the family had already breakfasted and dispersed, and a wagon winding far in the distance showed that the unfortunate Tom had already “packed” his relatives away.  I felt more cheerful—­there are few troubles Youth cannot distance with the start of a good night’s rest.  After a substantial breakfast, prepared by George, in a few moments we were mounted and dashing down the plain.

We followed the line of alder that defined the creek, now dry and baked with summer’s heat, but which in winter, George told me, overflowed its banks.  I still retain a vivid impression of that morning’s ride, the far-off mountains, like silhouettes, against the steel-blue sky, the crisp dry air, and the expanding track before me, animated often by the well-knit figure of George Tryan, musical with jingling spurs and picturesque with flying riata.  He rode powerful native roan, wild-eyed, untiring in stride and unbroken in nature.  Alas! the curves of beauty were concealed by the cumbrous MACHILLAS of the Spanish saddle, which levels all equine distinctions.  The single rein lay loosely on the cruel bit that can gripe, and if need be, crush the jaw it controls.

Again the illimitable freedom of the valley rises before me, as we again bear down into sunlit space.  Can this be “Chu Chu,” staid and respectable filly of American pedigree—­Chu Chu, forgetful of plank roads and cobblestones, wild with excitement, twinkling her small white feet beneath me?  George laughs out of a cloud of dust.  “Give her her head; don’t you see she likes it?” and Chu Chu seems to like it, and whether bitten by native tarantula into native barbarism or emulous of the roan, “blood” asserts itself, and in a moment the peaceful servitude of years is beaten out in the music of her clattering hoofs.  The creek widens to a deep gully.  We dive into it and up on the opposite side, carrying a moving cloud of impalpable powder with us.  Cattle are scattered over the plain, grazing quietly or banded together in vast restless herds.  George makes a wide, indefinite sweep with the riata, as if to include them all in his vaquero’s loop, and says, “Ours!”