ng to descend. In the distance below us already
twinkled the lights in the solitary rancho of Lone Valley. I turned to
my companion. "But you have forgotten that I don't even know your
name. What am I to call you?"

"That's so," he said, musingly. "Now, let's see. 'Kearney' would be a
good name. It's short and easy like. Thar's a street in 'Frisco the
same title; Kearney it is."

"But--" I began impatiently.

"Now you leave all that to me," he interrupted, with a superb
self-confidence that I could not but admire. "The name ain't no
account. It's the man that's responsible. Ef I was to lay for a man
that I reckoned was named Jones, and after I fetched him I found out on
the inquest that his real name was Smith, that wouldn't make no matter,
as long as I got the man."

The illustration, forcible as it was, did not strike me as offering a
prepossessing introduction, but we were already at the rancho. The
barking of dogs brought Sylvester to the door of the pretty little
cottage which his taste had adorned.

I briefly introduced Mr. Kearney. "Kearney will do--Kearney's good
enough for me," commented the soi-disant Kearney half-aloud, to my own
horror and Sylvester's evident mystification, and then he blandly
excused himself for a moment that he might personally supervise the
care of his own beast. When he was out of ear-shot I drew the puzzled
Sylvester aside.

"I have picked up--I mean I have been picked up on the road by a gentle
maniac, whose name is not Kearney. He is well armed and quotes
Dickens. With care, acquiescence in his views on all subjects, and
general submission to his commands, he may be placated. Doubtless the
spectacle of your helpless family, the contemplation of your daughter's
beauty and innocence, may touch his fine sense of humor and pathos.
Meanwhile, Heaven help you, and forgive me."

I ran upstairs to the little den that my hospitable host had kept
always reserved for me in my wanderings. I lingered some time over my
ablutions, hearing the languid, gentlemanly drawl of Sylvester below,
mingled with the equally cool, easy slang of my mysterious
acquaintance. When I came down to the sitting-room I was surprised,
however, to find the self-styled Kearney quietly seated on the sofa,
the gentle May Sylvester, the "Lily of Lone Valley," sitting with
maidenly awe and unaffected interest on one side of him, while on the
other that arrant flirt, her cousin Kate, was practicing th