ad been slyly peeping, a black-eyed boy appeared and stood before
him, his ragged straw hat held respectfully against his breast.

"_Sus manos!_" roared the old man; and dropping his hat the
_muchacho_ touched his hands before him in an attitude of prayer.

"Give the gentlemen a drink!" commanded Don Pablo severely, and after
Hardy had accepted the gourd of cold water which the boy dipped from a
porous _olla_, resting in the three-pronged fork of a trimmed
mesquite, the old gentleman called for his tobacco. This the _mozo_
brought in an Indian basket wrought by the Apaches who live across the
river--Bull Durham and brown paper. The senor offered these to his
guest, while Creede grinned in anticipation of the outcome.

"What?" exclaimed the Senor Moreno, astounded. "You do not smoke? Ah,
perhaps it is my poor tobacco! But wait, I have a cigarro which the
storekeeper gave me when I--No? No smoke nothing? Ah, well, well--no
smoke, no Mexicano, as the saying goes." He regarded his guest
doubtfully, with a shadow of disfavor. Then, rolling a cigarette, he
remarked: "You have a very white skin, Senor Hardy; I think you have
not been in Arizona very long."

"Only a year," replied Hardy modestly.

"_Muchacho!_" cried the senor. "Run and tell the senora to hasten the
dinner. And where," he inquired, with the shrewd glance of a country
lawyer, "and where did you learn, then, this excellent Spanish which
you speak?"

"At Old Camp Verde, to the north," replied Hardy categorically, and at
the name Creede looked up with sudden interest. "I lived there when I
was a boy."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Don Pablo, raising his eyebrows. "And were your
parents with you?"

"Oh, yes," answered Hardy, "my father was an officer at the post."

"Ah, _si_, _si_, _si_," nodded the old man vigorously, "now I
understand. Your father fought the Apaches and you played with the
little Mexican boys, no? But now your skin is white--you have not
lived long under our sun. When the Apaches were conquered your parents
moved, of course--they are in San Francisco now, perhaps, or Nuevo
York."

"My father is living near San Francisco," admitted Hardy, "but," and
his voice broke a little at the words, "my mother has been dead many
years."

"Ah, indeed," exclaimed Don Pablo sympathetically, "I am very sorry.
My own _madre_ has been many years dead also. But what think you of
our country? Is it not beautiful?"

"Yes, indeed," responded Hardy honestly, "and