had that rakish appearance dear to the heart of the cowboy.  Then he took the foot-square looking-glass from the wall and studied the effect at various and more or less unsatisfactory angles.  Again he knelt—­after depositing the hat on the bed—­and emerged with a pair of gorgeous leather chaps that glittered with the polished silver of conchas from waist-band to heel.  Next he drew on a pair of elaborate gauntlets embellished with hand-worked silk roses of crimson.  Then he glanced at his boots.  They were undoubtedly serviceable, but more or less muddy and stained.  That wouldn’t do at all!  Striding to the kitchen he poked about and finally unearthed a box of stove-polish that he had purchased and laid away for future use against that happy time when stove-polish would be doubly appreciated.  The metallic luster of his boots was not altogether satisfactory, but it would do.  “This here bein’ chief engineer of a popcorn machine ain’t what it’s said to be in the perspectus.  Gets a fella lookin’ greasy and feelin’ greasy, but the pay kind of makes up for it.  Me first month’s wages blowed in for outside decoratin’—­but I reckon the grub’ll hold out for a spell.”

Then he strode from the house and made his rounds, inspecting the pigs, shooing the chickens to their coop, and finally making a short pilgrimage to where Gentle Annie was grazing.  After he had saddled “Pill,” he returned to the house and reappeared with a piece of wrapping-paper on which he had printed:—­

Help yourself to grub—­but no fighting on thees premisus.

SUNDOWN, Propriter.

“It’s all right trustin’ folks,” he remarked as he gazed proudly at the sign and still more proudly at the signature.  “And I sure hate to put up anything that looks kind of religious, but these days I don’t trust nobody but meself, and I sure have a hard time doin’ that, knowin’ how crooked I could be if I tried.”

He gathered up the reins and mounted Pill.  “Come on, Chance!” he called.  “We don’t need any rooster-police to-day.  Jimmy’s in there talkin’ to his hens, and like as not cussin’ because I shet him up.  And he sure ought to be glad he ain’t goin’ on crutches.”

He rode out to the mesa and, turning from the trail, took as direct a course as he could approximate for the home of Chico Miguel, and incidentally Anita.  His mission would have been obvious to an utter stranger.  He shone and glistened from head to heel—­his face with the inner light of anticipation and his boots with the effulgence of hastily applied stove-polish.

He rode slowly, for he wished to collect himself, that his errand might have all the grace of a chance visit and yet not lack the most essential significance.  He did not stop to reason that Anita’s father and mother were anything but blind.