“And your father feeds them?”

“Certainly.  Also, he houses them.  It can’t be helped.  It’s an old custom.”

“How long has Pablo been a pensioner?”

“From birth.  He’s mostly Indian, and all the work he ever did never hurt him.  But, then, he was never paid very much.  He was born on the ranch and has never been more than twenty miles from it.  And his wife is our cook.  She has relatives, too.”

The captain burst out laughing.

“But surely this Pablo has some use,” he suggested.

“Well he feeds the dogs, and in order to season his frijoles with the salt of honest labor, he saddles my father’s horse and leads him round to the house every morning.  Throughout the remainder of the day, he sits outside the wall and, by following the sun, he manages to remain in the shade.  He watches the road to proclaim the arrival of visitors, smokes cigarettes, and delivers caustic criticisms on the younger generation when he can get anybody to listen to him.”

“How old is your father, Farrel?”

“Seventy-eight.”

“And he rides a horse!”

“He does worse than that.”  Farrel laughed.  “He rides a horse that would police you, sir.  On his seventieth birthday, at a rodeo, he won first prize for roping and hog-tying a steer.”

“I’d like to meet that father of yours, Farrel.”

“You’d like him.  Any time you want to spend a furlough on the Palomar, we’ll make you mighty welcome.  Better come in the fall for the quail-shooting.”  He glanced at his wrist-watch and sighed.  “Well, I suppose I’d do well to be toddling along.  Is the captain going to remain in the service?”

The captain nodded.

“My people are hell-benders on conforming to custom, also,” he added.  “We’ve all been field-artillerymen.

“I believe I thanked you for a favor you did me once, but to prove I meant what I said, I’m going to send you a horse, sir.  He is a chestnut with silver points, five years old, sixteen hands high, sound as a Liberty Bond, and bred in the purple.  He is beautifully reined, game, full of ginger, but gentle and sensible.  He’ll weigh ten hundred in condition, and he’s as active as a cat.  You can win with him at any horse-show and at the head of a battery. Dios!  He is every inch a caballero!”

“Sergeant, you’re much too kind.  Really—­”

“The things we have been through together, sir—­all that we have been to each other—­never can happen again.  You will add greatly to my happiness if you will accept this animal as a souvenir of our very pleasant association.”

“Oh, son, this is too much!  You’re giving me your own private mount.  You love him.  He loves you.  Doubtless he’ll know you the minute you enter the pasture.”

Farrel’s fine white teeth, flashed in a brilliant smile, “I do not desire to have the captain mounted on an inferior horse.  We have many other good horses on the Palomar.  This one’s name is Panchito; I will express him to you some day this week.”