Parker rode the gray horse, and Farrel had appropriated a pinto cow pony that Pablo used when line-riding.

With the hounds questing ahead of them, the four jogged up the San Gregorio, Don Mike leading the way, with Kay riding beside him.  From time to time she stole a sidelong glance at him, riding with his chin on his breast, apparently oblivious of her presence.  She knew that he was not in a mood to be entertaining to-day, to be a carefree squire of dames; his mind was busy grappling with problems that threatened not only him but everything in life that he held to be worth while.

“Do we go through that gate?” the girl queried, pointing to a five-rail gate in a wire fence that straggled across the valleys and up the hillside.

He nodded.

“Of course you do not have to go through it,” he teased her.  “Panchito can go over it.  Pie for him.  About five feet and a half.”

“Enough for all practical purposes,” she replied, and touched her ridiculous little spurs to the animal’s flank, took a firm grip on the reins with both hands, and sat down firmly in the saddle.  “All right, boy!” she cried, and, at the invitation, Panchito pricked up his ears and broke into an easy canter, gradually increasing his speed and taking the gate apparently without effort.  Don Mike watched to see the girl rise abruptly in her seat as the horse came down on the other side of the gate.  But no!  She was still sitting down in the saddle, her little hands resting lightly on the horse’s neck; and while Farrel watched her in downright admiration and her mother sat, white and speechless on the black mare, Kay galloped ahead a hundred yards, turned, and came back over the gate again.

“Oh, isn’t he a darling?” she cried.  “He pulls his feet up under him like a dog, when he takes off.  I want to take him over a seven-foot hurdle.  He can do it with yours truly up.  Let’s build a seven-foot hurdle to-morrow and try him out.”

“Fine!  We’ll build it,” Don Mike declared enthusiastically, and Parker, watching his wife’s frightened face, threw back his head and laughed.

“You are encouraging my daughter to kill herself,” the older woman charged Farrel.  “Kay, you tomboy, do not jump that gate again!  Suppose that horse should stumble and throw you.”

“Nonsense, mother.  That’s mere old hop-Scotch for Panchito.  One doesn’t get a jumping-jack to ride every day, and all I’ve ever done has been to pussyfoot through Central Park.”

“Do you mean to tell me you’ve never taken a hurdle before?” Don Mike was scandalized.  She nodded.

“She’ll do,” Parker assured him proudly.

Farrel confirmed this verdict with a nod and opened the gate.  They rode through.  Kay waited for him to close the gate.  He saw that she had been, captivated by Panchito, and as their glances met, his smile was a reflection of hers—­a smile thoroughly and childishly happy.