doorway, convoying a sloe-eyed maid
who bore wine and glasses upon a tray of beaten silver; and the smile
of the senorita was disturbing to a degree, brief though it was.

Behind the wine came cakes, and the senorita pointed tragically to
the silver dish that held them. "Madre mia, those terrible children
of Margarita have stolen half the cakes! I ran after them in the
orchard--but they swallow fast, those ninos! Now the senors must
starve!"

Up went the hand of the senora in dismay, and down went the head of
the senorita to hide how she was biting the laughter from her lips.
"I ran," she murmured pathetically, "and I caught Angelo--but at that
moment he popped the cake into his mouth and it was gone! Then I ran
after Maria--and she swallowed--"

"Teresita mia! The senors will think--" What they would think she
did not stipulate, but her eyes implored them to judge leniently the
irrepressibility of her beautiful one. There were cakes sufficient--a
hasty glance reassured her upon that point--and Teresita was in one of
her mischievous moods. The mother who had reared her sighed resignedly
and poured the wine into the small glasses with a quaint design
cut into their sides, perfectly unconscious of the good the little
diversion had done.

For a half-hour there was peaceful converse; of the adventure which
had brought the two gringos to the ranch as to a sanctuary, of the
land which lay before them, and of the unsettled conditions that
filled the days with violence.

Jose still strummed softly upon the guitar, a pleasant undertone to
the voices. And because he said very little, he saw and thought the
more; seeing glances and smiles between a strange man and the maid
whom he loved desirefully, bred the thought which culminated in a
sudden burst of speech against the gringos who had come into the
peaceful land and brought with them strife. Who stole the cattle of
the natives, calmly appropriated the choicest bits of valley land
without so much as a by-your-leave, and who treated the rightful
owners with contempt and as though they had no right to live in the
valley where they were born.

"Last week," he went on hotly, "an evil gringo with the clay of his
burrowings still upon his garments cursed me and called me greaser
because I did not give him all the road for his burro. I, Jose
Pacheco! They had better have a care, or the 'greasers' will drive
them back whence they came, like the cattle they are. When I, a don,