the horses made the
ill-matched team that hauled his mother and sister to church and town. The
other was a fiery ragged little roan mare which he kept for his own use.
None of these horses was worth more than thirty dollars, and they were
easily kept on a few tons of alfalfa a year.

The little mare laid back her ears and turned as though to annihilate him
with a kick. He quickly stepped right up against the threatening hind
legs, after the fashion of experienced horsemen who know that a kick is
harmless at short range, and laid his hand on her side. She trembled but
dared not move. He walked to her head, sliding his hand along the rough,
uncurried belly and talking to her in Spanish. In a moment he had the
bridle on her.

The town was impressively empty and still as he galloped through it. Hoof
beats rang out like shots, scaring a late-roaming cat, which darted across
the street like a runaway shadow.

Near the railroad station he came to a large white van, with a beam of
light emerging from its door. This was a local institution of
longstanding, known as the chile-wagon, and was the town's only all-night
restaurant. Here he aroused a fat, sleepy old Mexican.

"_Un tamale y cafe_," he ordered, and then had the proprietor make him a
couple of sandwiches to put in his pocket. He consumed his breakfast
hurriedly, rolled and lit a little brown cigarette, and was off again.

His way led up a long steep street lined with new houses and vacant lots;
then out upon the high empty level of the _mesa_. It was daylight now, of
a clear, brilliant morning. He was riding across a level prairie, which
was a grey desert most of the year, but which the rainy season of late
summer had now touched with rich colours. The grass in many of the hollows
was almost high enough to cut with a scythe, and its green expanse was
patched with purple-flowered weeds. Meadow larks bugled from the grass;
flocks of wild doves rose on whistling wings from the weed patches; a
great grey jack-rabbit with jet-tipped ears sprang from his form beside
the road and went sailing away in long effortless bounds, like a
wind-blown thing. Miles ahead were the mountains--an angular mass of blue
distance and purple shadow, rising steep five thousand feet above the
_mesa_, with little round foothills clustering at their feet. A brisk cool
wind fanned his face and fluttered the brim of his hat.

But with the rising of the sun the wind dropped, it became warm and he