Belding’s last remark was made as he led his companions out of shady gardens into the open.  Gale saw an adobe shed and a huge pen fenced by strangely twisted and contorted branches or trunks of mesquite, and, beyond these, wide, flat fields, green—­a dark, rich green—­and dotted with beautiful horses.  There were whites and blacks, and bays and grays.  In his admiration Gale searched his memory to see if he could remember the like of these magnificent animals, and had to admit that the only ones he could compare with them were the Arabian steeds.

“Every ranch loves his horses,” said Belding.  “When I was in the Panhandle I had some fine stock.  But these are Mexican.  They came from Durango, where they were bred.  Mexican horses are the finest in the world, bar none.”

“Shore I reckon I savvy why you don’t sleep nights,” drawled Laddy.  “I see a Greaser out there—­no, it’s an Indian.”

“That’s my Papago herdsman.  I keep watch over the horses now day and night.  Lord, how I’d hate to have Rojas or Salazar—­any of those bandit rebels—­find my horses!...Gale, can you ride?”

Dick modestly replied that he could, according to the Eastern idea of horsemanship.

“You don’t need to be half horse to ride one of that bunch.  But over there in the other field I’ve iron-jawed broncos I wouldn’t want you to tackle—­except to see the fun.  I’ve an outlaw I’ll gamble even Laddy can’t ride.”

“So.  How much’ll you gamble?” asked Laddy, instantly.

The ringing of a bell, which Belding said was a call to supper, turned the men back toward the house.  Facing that way, Gale saw dark, beetling ridges rising from the oasis and leading up to bare, black mountains.  He had heard Belding call them No Name Mountains, and somehow the appellation suited those lofty, mysterious, frowning peaks.

It was not until they reached the house and were about to go in that Belding chanced to discover Gale’s crippled hand.

“What an awful hand!” he exclaimed.  “Where the devil did you get that?”

“I stove in my knuckles on Rojas,” replied Dick.

“You did that in one punch?  Say, I’m glad it wasn’t me you hit!  Why didn’t you tell me?  That’s a bad hand.  Those cuts are full of dirt and sand.  Inflammation’s setting in.  It’s got to be dressed.  Nell!” he called.

There was no answer.  He called again, louder.

“Mother, where’s the girl?”

“She’s there in the dining-room,” replied Mrs. Belding.

“Did she hear me?” he inquired, impatiently.

“Of course.”

“Nell!” roared Belding.

This brought results.  Dick saw a glimpse of golden hair and a white dress in the door.  But they were not visible longer than a second.

“Dad, what’s the matter?” asked a voice that was still as sweet as formerly, but now rather small and constrained.

“Bring the antiseptics, cotton, bandages—­and things out here.  Hurry now.”