“I reckon that that Mr. Brooks who’s down here lookin’ arter mill property, got up the dance.  He’s bin round town canvassin’ all the women folks and drummin’ up likely gals for it.  They say he actooally sent an invite to the Widder Wade,” remarked another lounger.  “Gosh! he’s got cheek!”

“Well, gentlemen,” said the proprietor judicially, “while we don’t intend to hev any minin’ camp fandangos or ’Frisco falals round Santa Any—­(Santa Ana was proud of its simple agricultural virtues)—­I ain’t so hard-shelled as not to give new things a fair trial.  And, after all, it’s the women folk that has the say about it.  Why, there’s old Miss Ford sez she hasn’t kicked a fut sence she left Mizoori, but wouldn’t mind trying it agin.  Ez to Brooks takin’ that trouble—­well, I suppose it’s along o’ his bein’ healthy!” He heaved a deep dyspeptic sigh, which was faintly echoed by the others.  “Why, look at him now, ridin’ round on that black hoss o’ his, in the wet since daylight and not carin’ for blind chills or rhumatiz!”

He was looking at a serape-draped horseman, the one the widow had seen on the previous night, who was now cantering slowly up the street.  Seeing the group on the veranda, he rode up, threw himself lightly from his saddle, and joined them.  He was an alert, determined, good-looking fellow of about thirty-five, whose smooth, smiling face hardly commended itself to Santa Ana, though his eyes were distinctly sympathetic.  He glanced at the depressed group around him and became ominously serious.

“When did it happen?” he asked gravely.

“What happen?” said the nearest bystander.

“The Funeral, Flood, Fight, or Fire.  Which of the four F’s was it?”

“What are ye talkin’ about?” said the proprietor stiffly, scenting some dangerous humor.

“You,” said Brooks promptly.  “You’re all standing here, croaking like crows, this fine morning.  I passed your farm, Johnson, not an hour ago; the wheat just climbing out of the black adobe mud as thick as rows of pins on paper—­what have you to grumble at?  I saw your stock, Briggs, over on Two-Mile Bottom, waddling along, fat as the adobe they were sticking in, their coats shining like fresh paint—­what’s the matter with you?  And,” turning to the proprietor, “there’s your shed, Saunders, over on the creek, just bursting with last year’s grain that you know has gone up two hundred per cent. since you bought it at a bargain—­what are you growling at?  It’s enough to provoke a fire or a famine to hear you groaning—­and take care it don’t, some day, as a lesson to you.”

All this was so perfectly true of the prosperous burghers that they could not for a moment reply.  But Briggs had recourse to what he believed to be a retaliatory taunt.

“I heard you’ve been askin’ Widow Wade to come to your dance,” he said, with a wink at the others.  “Of course she said ‘Yes.’”