Parker did not reply.  He did not know whether to laugh or fly into a rage, to offer Don Mike his hand or his fist.  The latter must have guessed Parker’s feelings, for he favored his guests with a Latin shrug and a deprecatory little smile, begged to be excused and departed for the barn.  A quarter of an hour later Kay saw him and Pablo ride out of the yard and over the hills toward the west; she observed that Farrel was riding his father’s horse, wherefore she knew that he had left Panchito behind for her.

Farrel found Don Nicolas Sandoval, the sheriff, by riding straight to a column of smoke he saw rising from a grove of oaks on a flat hilltop.

“What do you mean by camping out here, Don Nicolas?” Farrel demanded as he rode up.  “Since when has it become the fashion to await a formal invitation to the hospitality of the Rancho Palomar?”

“I started to ride down to the hacienda at sunset last night,” Don Nicolas replied, “but a man on foot and carrying a rifle and a blanket came over the hills to the south.  I watched him through my binoculars.  He came down into the wash of the San Gregorio—­and I did not see him come out.  So I knew he was camped for the night in the willow thickets of the river bed; that he was a stranger in the country, else he would have gone up to your hacienda for the night; that his visit spelled danger to you, else why did he carry a rifle?

“I went supperless, watching from the hillside to see if this stranger would light a fire in the valley.”

“He did not?” Farrel queried.

“Had he made a camp-fire, my boy, I would have accorded myself the pleasure of an informal visit, incidentally ascertaining who he was and what he wanted.  I am very suspicious of strangers who make cold camps in the San Gregorio.  At daylight this morning I rode down the wash and searched for his camp.  I found where he had slept in the grass—­also this,” and he drew from his pocket a single rifle cartridge.  “Thirty-two-forty caliber, Miguel,” he continued, “with a soft-nose bullet.  I do not know of one in this county who shoots such a heavy rifle.  In the old days we used the .44 caliber, but nowadays, we prefer nothing heavier than a .30 and many use a .35 caliber for deer.”

Farrel drew a 6 millimeter Mannlicher carbine from the gun scabbard on his saddle, dropped five shells into the magazine, looked at his sights and thrust the weapon back into its receptacle.  “I think I ought to have some more life insurance,” he murmured, complacently.  “By the way, Don Nicolas, about how many sheep have I attached?”

“Loustalot’s foreman says nine thousand in round numbers.”

“Where is the sheep camp?”

“Over yonder.”  Don Nicolas waved a careless hand toward the west.  “I saw their camp-fire last night.”

“I’m going over to give them the rush.”

“By all means, Miguel.  If you run those Basques off the ranch I will be able to return to town and leave my deputies in charge of these sheep.  Keep your eyes open, Miguel. Adios, muchacho!”