ning, when the air was like summer and all the birds were
rehearsing most industriously their parts in the opening chorus with
which Spring meant to celebrate her return to the northern land, a
ride down the valley was pure joy to any man whose soul was tuned in
harmony with the great outdoors; and trouble lagged and could not keep
pace with the riders.

Half-way down, they met Valencia, a slim young Spaniard with one of
those amazing smiles that was like a flash of sunlight, what with his
perfect teeth, his eyes that could almost laugh out loud, and a sunny
soul behind them. Valencia, having an appetite for acquiring wisdom of
various kinds and qualities, knew some English and was not averse to
making strangers aware of the accomplishment.

Therefore, when the two greeted him in Spanish, he calmly replied:
"Hello, pardner," and pulled up for a smoke.

"How you feel for my dam-close call to-morrow?" he wanted to know of
Jack, when he learned his name.

"Pretty well. How did you know--?" began Jack, but the other cut him
short.

"Jose, she heard on town. The patron, she's worry leetle. She's 'fraid
for Senor Hunter be keel. Me, I ride to find for-sure." Valencia
dropped his match, and leaned negligently from the saddle and picked
it out of the grass, his eyes stealing a look at the stranger as he
came up.

"Good work," commented Jack under his breath to Dade. But Valencia's
ears were keen for praise; he heard, and from that moment he was
Jack's friend.

"I borrowed your saddle, Valencia," Jack announced, meaning to promise
a speedy return of it.

"Not my saddle; yours and mine, amigo," amended Valencia quite simply
and sincerely. "Mine, she's yours also. You keep him." While he
smoked the little, corn-husk cigarette, he eyed with admiration the
copper-red hair upon which Manuel had looked with disfavor.

Before they rode on and left him, his friendliness had stamped
an agreeable impression upon Jack's consciousness. He looked back
approvingly at the sombreroed head bobbing along behind a clump of
young manzanita just making ready to bloom daintily.

"I like that vaquero," he stated emphatically. "He's worth two of
Manuel, to my notion."

"Valencia? He's not half the man old Manuel is. He gambles worse than
an Injun, and never has anything more than his riding outfit and the
clothes on his back, they tell me. And he fights like a catamount when
the notion strikes him; and it doesn't seem to make much differ