“No.  I plan to pile off at Sespe, away up the line, and take a short cut via a cattle-trail over the hills.  I’ll hike it.”

She hesitated slightly.  Then: 

“I’m sure father would be very happy to give you a lift out from El Toro, Sergeant.  We shall have oodles of room.”

“Thank you.  You are very kind.  But the fact is,” he went on to explain, “nobody knows I’m coming home, and I have a childish desire to sneak in the back way and surprise them.  Were I to appear in El Toro, I’d have to shake hands with everybody in town and relate a history of my exploits and—­”

“I understand perfectly.  You just want to get home, don’t you?” And she bent upon him a smile of complete understanding—­a smile all-compelling, maternal.  “But did you say you’d hike it in from Sespe?  Why not hire a horse?”

“I’d like to have a horse, and if I cared to ask far one, I could borrow one.  But I’ll hike it instead.  It will be easy in light marching-order.”

“Speaking of horses,” she said abruptly.  “Do you know a horse in the San Gregorio named Panchito?”

“A very dark chestnut with silver mane and tail, five-gaited, and as stylish as a lady?”

“The very same.”

“I should say I do know that horse!  What about him?”

“My father is going to buy him for me.”

This was news, and Farrel’s manner indicated as much.

“Where did you see Panchito?” he demanded.

“An Indian named Pablo rode him into El Toro to be shod one day while we were living at the hotel there.  He’s perfectly adorable.”

“Pablo?  Hardly.  I know the old rascal.”

“Be serious.  Panchito—­I was passing the blacksmith’s shop, and I simply had to step in and admire him.”

“That tickled old Pablo to death—­of course.”

“It did.  He put Panchito through all of his tricks for me, and, after the horse was shod, he permitted me to ride the dear for half an hour.  Pablo was so kind!  He waited until I could run back to the hotel and change into my riding-habit.”

“Did you try to give Pablo some money—­say, about five dollars?” he demanded, smilingly.

“Yes.”  Her eyes betrayed wonder.

“He declined it with profuse thanks, didn’t he?”

“You’re the queerest man I’ve ever met.  Pablo did refuse it.  How did you know?”

“I know Pablo.  He wouldn’t take money from a lady.  It’s against the code of the Rancho Palomar, and if his boss ever heard that he had fractured that code, he’d skin him alive.”

“Not Pablo’s boss.  Pablo told me his Don Mike, as he calls him, was killed by the bewhiskered devils in a cold country the name of which he had heard but could not remember.  He meant Siberia.”

Farrel sat up suddenly.

“What’s that?” he cried sharply.  “He told you Don Mike had been killed?”

“Yes—­poor fellow!  Pablo said Don Mike’s father had had a telegram from the War Department.”