“I do not deserve such consideration.  Consequently, for your gentle forbearance, you shall be accorded a unique privilege—­that of meeting a dead soldier.  I am Miguel Jose Farrel, better known as ‘Don Mike,’ of the Rancho Palomar, and I own Panchito.  To quote the language of Mark Twain, ‘the report of my death has been grossly exaggerated,’ as is the case of several thousand other soldiers in this man’s army.”  He chuckled as he saw a look of amazement replace the sweet smile.  “And you are Miss—­” he queried.

She did not answer.  She could only stare at him, and in that look he thought he noted signs of perturbation.  While he had talked, the train had slid to a momentary halt for the flag-station, and while he waited now for her name, the train began creeping out of Sespe.

“All right,” he laughed.  “You can tell me your name when we meet again.  I must run for it.  Good-by.”  He hurried through the screen door to the platform, stepped over the brass railing, and clung there a moment, looking back into the car at her before dropping lightly to the ground between the tracks.

“Now what the devil is the meaning of that?” he mused, as he stood there watching the train.  “There were tears in her eyes.”

He crossed the tracks, climbed a fence, and after traversing a small piece of bottom-land, entered a trail through the chaparral, and started his upward climb to the crest of the range that hid the San Gregorio.  Suddenly he paused.

Had the girl’s unfamiliarity with Spanish names caused her to confuse Palomar with Palomares?  And why was Panchito to be sold at auction?  Was it like his father to sacrifice his son’s horse to any fellow with the money to buy him?  No!  No!  Rather would he sell his own mount and retain Panchito for the sake of the son he mourned as dead.  The Palomares end of the San Gregorio was too infertile to interest an experienced agriculturist like Okada; there wasn’t sufficient acreage to make a colonization-scheme worth while.  On the contrary, fifty thousand acres of the Rancho Palomar lay in the heart of the valley and immediately contiguous to the flood-waters at the head of the ghost-river for which the valley was named.

Don Mike, of Palomar, leaned against the bole of a scrub-oak and closed his eyes in sudden pain.  Presently, he roused himself and went his way with uncertain step, for, from time to time, tears blinded him.  And the last of the sunlight had faded from the San Gregorio before he topped the crest of its western boundary; the melody of Brother Flavio’s angelus had ceased an hour previous, and over the mountains to the east a full moon stood in a cloudless sky, flooding the silent valley with its silver light, and pricking out in bold relief the gray-white walls of the Mission de la Madre Dolorosa, crumbling souvenir of a day that was done.