“You’re the only man in all this God-forsaken country that has the sense of a Shanghai rooster!” cried the little man in a glow.  “They ride horses and they know naught of them; and they laugh at a horseman!  Your hand, sir!” He shook it.  “And is that your horse in number four?  I wondered!  He’s the first animal I’ve seen here properly shod.  They use the rasp, sir, on the outside the hoof, and on the clinches, sir; and they burn a seat for the shoe; and they pare out the sole and trim the frog—­bah!  You shoe your own horse, I take it.  That’s right and proper!  Your hand again, sir.  Your horse has been fed this hour agone.”

“I’ll water him, then,” said I.

But when I led him forth I could find no trough or other facilities until the little man led me to a corner of the corral and showed me a contraption with a close-fitting lid to be lifted.

“It’s along of the flies,” he explained to me.  “They must drink, and we starve them for water here, and they go greedy for their poison yonder.”  He indicated flat dishes full of liquid set on shelves here and about.  “We keep them pretty clear.”

I walked over, curiously, to examine.  About and in the dishes were literally quarts of dead insects, not only flies, but bees, hornets, and other sorts as well.  I now understood the deadly silence that had so impressed me the evening before.  This was certainly most ingenious; and I said so.

But at my first remark the old man became obstinately silent, and fell again to grooming the Morgan horse.  Then I became aware that he was addressing me in low tones out of the corner of his mouth.

“Go on; look at the horse; say something,” he muttered, busily polishing down the animal’s hind legs.  “You’re a man who saveys a horse—­the only man I’ve seen here who does. Get out!  Don’t ask why.  You’re safe now.  You’re not safe here another day.  Water your horse; eat your breakfast; then get out!”

And not another word did I extract.  I watered my horse at the covered trough, and rather thoughtfully returned to the courtyard.

I found there Old Man Hooper waiting.  He looked as bland and innocent and harmless as the sunlight on his own flagstones—­until he gazed up at me, and then I was as usual disconcerted by the blank, veiled, unwinking stare of his eyes.

“Remarkably fine Morgan stallion you have, sir,” I greeted him.  “I didn’t know such a creature existed in this part of the world.”

But the little man displayed no gratification.

“He’s well enough.  I have him more to keep Tim happy than anything else.  We’ll go in to breakfast.”

I cast a cautious eye at the barred window in the left wing.  The curtains were still down.  At the table I ventured to ask after Miss Hooper.  The old man stared at me up to the point of embarrassment, then replied drily that she always breakfasted in her room.  The rest of our conversation was on general topics.  I am bound to say it was unexpectedly easy.  The old man was a good talker, and possessed social ease and a certain charm, which he seemed to be trying to exert.  Among other things, I remember, he told me of the Indian councils he used to hold in the old days.