Barbara swung around to view the poet.  She saw a slender man astride a fagged Mexican pony.  A ragged coat and ragged trousers covered the man’s nakedness.  Indian moccasins protected his feet, while a torn and shapeless felt hat sat upon his well-shaped head.  American was written all over him.  No one could have imagined him anything else.  Apparently he was a tramp as well—­his apparel proclaimed him that; but there were two discordant notes in the otherwise harmonious ensemble of your typical bo.  He was clean shaven and he rode a pony.  He rode erect, too, with the easy seat of an army officer.

At sight of the girl he raised his battered hat and swept it low to his pony’s shoulder as he bent in a profound bow.

“I seek the majordomo, senorita,” he said.

“Mr. Grayson is up at the office, that little building to the left of the ranchhouse,” replied the girl, pointing.

The newcomer had addressed her in Spanish, and as he heard her reply, in pure and liquid English, his eyes widened a trifle; but the familiar smile with which he had greeted her left his face, and his parting bow was much more dignified though no less profound than its predecessor.

  And you, my sweet Penelope, out there somewhere you wait for me,
  With buds of roses in your hair and kisses on your mouth.

Grayson and his employer both looked up as the words of Knibbs’ poem floated in to them through the open window.

“I wonder where that blew in from,” remarked Grayson, as his eyes discovered Bridge astride the tired pony, looking at him through the window.  A polite smile touched the stranger’s lips as his eyes met Grayson’s, and then wandered past him to the imposing figure of the Easterner.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” said Bridge.

“Evenin’,” snapped Grayson.  “Go over to the cookhouse and the Chink’ll give you something to eat.  Turn your pony in the lower pasture.  Smith’ll show you where to bunk tonight, an’ you kin hev your breakfast in the mornin’.  S’long!” The ranch superintendent turned back to the paper in his hand which he had been discussing with his employer at the moment of the interruption.  He had volleyed his instructions at Bridge as though pouring a rain of lead from a machine gun, and now that he had said what he had to say the incident was closed in so far as he was concerned.

The hospitality of the Southwest permitted no stranger to be turned away without food and a night’s lodging.  Grayson having arranged for these felt that he had done all that might be expected of a host, especially when the uninvited guest was so obviously a hobo and doubtless a horse thief as well, for who ever knew a hobo to own a horse?

Bridge continued to sit where he had reined in his pony.  He was looking at Grayson with what the discerning boss judged to be politely concealed enjoyment.

“Possibly,” suggested the boss in a whisper to his aide, “the man has business with you.  You did not ask him, and I am sure that he said nothing about wishing a meal or a place to sleep.”