“They were held on the willow flat, outside the east wall,” he said.  “I never allowed any of them inside the walls.”  The suavity of his manner broke fiercely and suddenly.  “Everything inside the walls is mine!” he declared with heat.  “Mine! mine! mine!  Understand?  I will not tolerate in here anything that is not mine; that does not obey my will; that does not come when I say come; go when I say go; and fall silent when I say be still!”

A wild and fantastic idea suddenly illuminated my understanding.

“Even the crickets, the flies, the frogs, the birds,” I said, audaciously.

He fixed his wildcat eyes upon me without answering.

“And,” I went on, deliberately, “who could deny your perfect right to do what you will with your own?  And if they did deny that right what more natural than that they should be made to perish—­or take their breakfasts in their rooms?”

I was never more aware of the absolute stillness of the house than when I uttered these foolish words.  My hand was on the gun in my trouser-band; but even as I spoke a sickening realization came over me that if the old man opposite so willed, I would have no slightest chance to use it.  The air behind me seemed full of menace, and the hair crawled on the back of my neck.  Hooper stared at me without sign for ten seconds; his right hand hovered above the polished table.  Then he let it fall without giving what I am convinced would have been a signal.

“Will you have more coffee—­my guest?” he inquired.  And he stressed subtly the last word in a manner that somehow made me just a trifle ashamed.

At the close of the meal the Mexican familiar glided into the room.  Hooper seemed to understand the man’s presence, for he arose at once.

“Your horse is saddled and ready,” he told me, briskly.  “You will be wishing to start before the heat of the day.  Your cantinas are ready on the saddle.”

He clapped on his hat and we walked together to the corral.  There awaited us not only my own horse, but another.  The equipment of the latter was magnificently reminiscent of the old California days—­gaily-coloured braided hair bridle and reins; silver conchas; stock saddle of carved leather with silver horn and cantle; silvered bit bars; gay Navajo blanket as corona; silver corners to skirts, silver conchas on the long tapaderos.  Old Man Hooper, strangely incongruous in his wrinkled “store clothes,” swung aboard.

“I will ride with you for a distance,” he said.

We jogged forth side by side at the slow Spanish trot.  Hooper called my attention to the buildings of Fort Shafter glimmering part way up the slopes of the distant mountains, and talked entertainingly of the Indian days, and how the young officers used to ride down to his ranch for music.