Of “Old Ed’s” early life strange stories are told; like the other cattle barons, he was hungry for land and took it where or how he could.  There are tales of fertile sections bought for ten cents an acre, tales of Mexican ranchers dispossessed by mortgage, by monte, or by any means that came to hand; stories even of some, more stubborn than the rest, who refused to feed the Austin greed for land, and who remained on their farms to feed the buzzards instead.  Those were crude old days; the pioneers who pushed their herds into the far pastures were lawless fellows, ruthless, acquisitive, mastered by the empire-builder’s urge for acres and still more acres.  They were the Reclaimers, the men who seized and held, and then seized more, concerning themselves little or not at all with the moral law as applicable to both Mexican and white, and leaving it to the second generation to justify their acts, if ever justification were required.

As other ranches grew under the hands of such unregenerate owners, so also under “Old Ed” Austin’s management did Las Palnaas increase and prosper.  The estate took its name from a natural grove of palms in which the house was built; it comprised an expanse of rich river-land backed by miles of range where “Box A” cattle lived and bred.  In his later years the old man sold much land, and some he leased; but when he handed Las Palmas to his son, “Young Ed,” as a wedding gift, the ranch still remained a property to be proud of, and one that was known far and wide for its size and richness.  Leaving his boy to work out of it a fortune for himself and his bride, the father retired to San Antonio, whither the friends and cronies of his early days were drifting.  There he settled down and proceeded to finish his allotted span exactly as suited him best.  The rancher’s ideal of an agreeable old age comprised three important items—­to wit, complete leisure, unlimited freedom of speech, and two pints of rye whisky daily.  He enjoyed them all impartially, until, about a year before this story opens, he died profanely and comfortably.  He had a big funeral, and was sincerely mourned by a coterie of gouty old Indian-fighters.

Las Palmas had changed greatly since Austin, senior, painfully scrawled his slanting signature to the deed.  It was a different ranch now to what the old man had known; indeed, it was doubtful if he would have recognized it, for even the house was new.

Alaire had some such thought in mind as she rode up to the gate on the afternoon following her departure from the water-hole, and she felt a thrill of pride at the acres of sprouting corn, the dense green fields of alfalfa so nicely fitted between their fences.  They were like clean, green squares of matting spread for the feet of summer.

A Mexican boy came running to care for her horse, a Mexican woman greeted her as she entered the wide, cool hall and went to her room.  Alaire had ridden far.  Part of the night had been spent at the Balli goat-ranch, the remainder of the journey had been hot and dusty, and even yet she was not wholly recovered from her experience of the outward trip.