But when Mrs. French reached her home, she read again parts out of the letter which the same mail had brought her from the Night Hawk Ranch, read them in the light of Kalman’s letter, while the shadows deepened on her face.

“He is a strange little beggar,” she read, “though, by Jove, he is little no longer.  He is somewhere about sixteen, is away past my shoulder, and nearly as strong as I am, rides like a cowboy, and is as good after the cattle as I am, is afraid of nothing, and dearly loves a fight, and, I regret to say, he gets lots of it, for the Galicians are always after him for their feasts.  He is a great singer, you know, and dances much too well; and at the feasts, as I suppose you know quite well, there are always fights.  And here I want to consult you.  I very nearly sent him back to you a little while ago, not for his fault, but, I regret to say, for mine.  We went to a fool show among the Galicians, and, I am ashamed to say, played the fool.  There was the deuce of a row, and Mackenzie and I were in a tight box, for a dozen or so of our Galician friends were determined upon blood.  They got some of mine too, for they were using their knives, and, I am bound to say, it looked rather serious.  At this juncture that young beggar, forgetting all my good training in the manly art, and reverting to his Slavic barbaric methods of defence, went in with a hand-spike, yelling, and, I regret to say, cursing, till I thought he had gone drunk or mad.  Drunk, he was not, but mad,—­well, he was possessed of some kind of demon none too gentle that night.  I must acknowledge it was a good thing for us, and though I hate to think of the whole ghastly business, it was something fine, though, to see him raging up and down that room, taunting them for cowards, hurling defiance, and, by Jove, looking all the while like some Greek god in cowboy outfit, if your imagination can get that.  I am telling you the whole sickening story, because I must treat you with perfect sincerity.  I assure you next morning I was sick enough of myself and my useless life, sick enough to have done with the unhappy and disgraceful farce of living, but for your sake and for the boy’s too, I couldn’t play the cad, and so I continue to live.

“But I have come to the opinion that he ought not to stay with me.  As I said before, he is a splendid chap in many ways, but I am afraid in these surroundings he will go bad.  He is clean as yet, I firmly believe, thank God, but with this Colony near us with their low standard of morality, and to be quite sincere, in the care of such a man as I am, the boy stands a poor chance.  I know this will grieve you, but it is best to be honest.  I think he ought to go to you.  I must refuse responsibility for his remaining here.  I feel like a beast in saying this, but whatever shred of honour is left me forces me to say it.”