When they had ridden a mile along the ridge, they began to descend again toward the valley.  Vegetation now sparingly bordered the trail, clumps of chemisal, an occasional manzanita bush, and one or two dwarfed “buckeyes” rooted their way between the interstices of the black-gray rock.  Now and then, in crossing some dry gully, worn by the overflow of winter torrents from above, the grayish rock gloom was relieved by dull red and brown masses of color, and almost every overhanging rock bore the mark of a miner’s pick.  Presently, as they rounded the curving flank of the mountain, from a rocky bench below them, a thin ghost-like stream of smoke seemed to be steadily drawn by invisible hands into the invisible ether.  “It is the camp,” said Concho, gleefully; “I will myself forward to prepare them for the stranger,” and before his companion could detain him, he had disappeared at a sharp canter around the curve of the trail.

Left to himself, the stranger took a more leisurely pace, which left him ample time for reflection.  Scamp as he was, there was something in the simple credulity of poor Concho that made him uneasy.  Not that his moral consciousness was touched, but he feared that Concho’s companions might, knowing Concho’s simplicity, instantly suspect him of trading upon it.  He rode on in a deep study.  Was he reviewing his past life?  A vagabond by birth and education, a swindler by profession, an outcast by reputation, without absolutely turning his back upon respectability, he had trembled on the perilous edge of criminality ever since his boyhood.  He did not scruple to cheat these Mexicans,—­they were a degraded race,—­and for a moment he felt almost an accredited agent of progress and civilization.  We never really understand the meaning of enlightenment until we begin to use it aggressively.

A few paces further on four figures appeared in the now gathering darkness of the trail.  The stranger quickly recognized the beaming smile of Concho, foremost of the party.  A quick glance at the faces of the others satisfied him that while they lacked Concho’s good humor, they certainly did not surpass him in intellect.  “Pedro” was a stout vaquero.  “Manuel” was a slim half-breed and ex-convert of the Mission of San Carmel, and “Miguel” a recent butcher of Monterey.  Under the benign influences of Concho that suspicion with which the ignorant regard strangers died away, and the whole party escorted the stranger—­who had given his name as Mr. Joseph Wiles—­to their camp-fire.  So anxious were they to begin their experiments that even the instincts of hospitality were forgotten, and it was not until Mr. Wiles—­now known as “Don Jose”—­sharply reminded them that he wanted some “grub,” that they came to their senses.  When the frugal meal of tortillas, frijoles, salt pork, and chocolate was over, an oven was built of the dark-red rock brought from the ledge before them, and an earthenware jar, glazed by some peculiar local process, tightly fitted