. To the injured lad everything now seemed
a blank from the evening meal at San Leon, after his arrival there,
until now. Why he had left that ranch and why he had come to this queer
place he could not imagine; but the picture of the beautiful,
mission-like house was distinct, and of Dorothy walking across its lawn
beside him.

Dorothy! It seemed a long time since he had seen her or heard her sweet
voice chide him for his misdoings. Why--now he remembered--he hadn't
said good-night to Dorothy, his first faithful friend. But it is
needless to follow the gropings of Jim's mind back to the realization of
his present situation. Yet the first and strongest feeling which
possessed him was that he must tell Dorothy where he was. Dolly was such
a hand to worry, silly Dolly! And she was his best, earliest friend.

The Mexican brought him his breakfast of bacon and corn bread, with
another cup of that coffee which always stood upon the stove. A child
came with the man and gazed at Jim with solemn, wondering eyes.

Jim returned the stare with interest. This was the first small Indian he
had ever seen and to judge by the little fellow's face he might have
been an old, old man--he was so grave and dignified.

"How are you, sonny?" said Jim.

The midget simply blinked.

"Can't you talk, kid?" again questioned the stranger, holding out his
hand.

The little boy did not answer, save by placing his own chubby, extremely
dirty hand on Jim's extended palm.

"Good. You're friendly, if you are dumb. Sort of needs washin', don't
it? Water. Can you bring me some water? I'm thirsty."

The child walked to a big tank, or half-barrel, outside the door and
dipped the tin coffee cup within it. But he was too short to reach the
low supply and giving himself an extra hitch upwards, over the edge, the
better to obtain the draught, he lost his balance and fell in head
first.

Jim's low bed commanded a view of this and he started to rescue the
youngster, but the man was before him. He treated the accident as if it
were an ordinary occurrence, pulling the child out by the seat of his
leather breeches, shaking him as one might a wet puppy, and setting him
on his feet without a word. Indeed, words seemed the most precious
commodity in that queer shanty, so rarely were they used. But the
father, if such he were, himself filled the cup with the stale water and
gave it to the child, who carried it to Jim as calmly as if no trouble
had attended hi