At the time our story begins, Frank and his cousin had lived two months in Southern California, where Mr. Winters owned a farm—­or, in the language of that country, a rancho—­of sixteen thousand acres.  Besides attending to his business in the mines, and superintending his affairs in Sacramento, Uncle James had devoted a portion of his time to stock-raising; and, when Frank and Archie first saw his immense droves of horses and cattle, they thought them sufficient in numbers to supply all the markets in America.

Mr. Winters’s rancho was not managed like the farms in our part of the country.  To begin with, there were but three fences on it—­one inclosed two small barns and corn-cribs; another, a pasture of two or three acres, and the third formed the cow-pen.  In the barns, Uncle James kept his riding and farm horses; the pasture was for the use of the half dozen cows which supplied the rancho with butter and milk; and the cow-pen was nothing more nor less than a prison, into which, in the spring of the year, all the young cattle and horses were driven and branded with the initials of the owner’s name.  This was done so that Mr. Winters and his hired men might be able to recognize the stock anywhere.  The cattle sometimes strayed, and became mixed up with those of the neighbors, and the marks on their flanks showed to whom they belonged.

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A fence around that farm would have been useless.  None of the cattle and horses had ever been handled, except when they were branded, and, consequently, they were very wild.  Sometimes they became frightened and stampeded; and then they behaved like a herd of buffaloes, which turn aside for nothing, and stop only when they are completely tired out.  On these occasions, the strongest fences that could have been made would have been trampled down like the grass beneath their feet.

Of course, these cattle and horses had never seen the inside of a stable.  Indeed, a barn large enough to accommodate them would have been an immense building, and would have cost more money than all the stock-raisers in the country were worth.  However, there was no need of shelter for them.  The grass on the prairie was abundant at all seasons of the year, the winters were very mild, and the cattle were always fat and in condition to be driven to market.

All this stock was managed by half a dozen men, called Rancheros.  Four of them were Mexicans; the others were our old friends, Dick Lewis and Bob Kelly.  So skillful were these men in their business, that a herd of cattle, which, in the hands of any one else, would have proved utterly unmanageable, was driven about by them with perfect ease.  Sometimes it became necessary to secure a single member of these droves.  Perhaps the housekeeper wanted some fresh meat for dinner, or Uncle James desired a new riding horse; in either case, the services of these men were invaluable.  Mr. Winters would issue the necessary