Wondering what could have induced Sundown to call at her home, especially under the existing circumstances, Nell Loring made him welcome.  After he had washed and strolled over to the stables to see to his horse.  Sundown, returning, declined an invitation to come in, and sat on the veranda, smoking cigarettes and making mental note of the exterior details of the hacienda:  its garden, shade-trees, corrals, and windmill.  Should prosperity smile upon him, he would have a windmill, be Gosh!  Not a white one—­though white wasn’t so bad—­but something tasty; red, white and blue, mebby—­a real American windmill, and in the front of the house a flagpole with the American flag.  And he would keep the sign “American Hotel” above the gate.  There was nothin’ like bein’ paterotic.  Mexican ranches—­some of ’em—­was purty enough in a lazy kind of style, but he was goin’ to let folks know that a white man was runnin’ the water-hole ranch!

And all unknown to him, Anita stood in the doorway of one of the herder’s ’dobes, more than ever impressed by the evident importance of her beau-ideal of chivalry, who took the kick of horses as a matter of course, and rose smilingly from such indignities to present flowers to her with eyes which spake of love and lips that expressed, as best they could, admiration.  Anita was a bit disappointed and perhaps a bit pleased that he had not as yet seen her.  As it was she could worship from a distance that lent security to her tender embarrassment.  The tall one must, indeed, be a great caballero to be made welcome at the patron’s home.  Assuredly he was not as the other vaqueros who visited the patron. He sat upon the veranda and smoked in a lordly way, while they inevitably held forth in the less conspicuous latitude of the bunk-house and its environs.  Anita was happy.

Sundown, elated by the righteousness of his mission as harbinger of peace, met Loring returning from one of the camps with gracious indifference to the other’s gruff welcome.

They sat at the table and ate in silence for a while.  With the refreshing coffee Sundown’s embarrassment melted.  His weird command of language, enhanced by the opportunity for exercise in a good cause, astonished and eventually interested his hearers.  He did not approach his subject directly, but mounted the metaphorical steps of his rostrum leisurely.  He discoursed on the opportunities afforded by the almost limitless free range.  He hinted at the possibility of internecine strife eventually awakening the cupidity of “land-sharks” all over the country.  If there was land worth killing folks for, there was land worth stealing.  If the Concho Valley was once thrown open to homesteaders, then farewell free range and fat cattle and sheep.  And the mention of sheep led him to remark that there was a small band at the water-hole, uncared-for save by himself.  “And he was no sheep-man, but he sure hated to see any critters sufferin’