formerly deputy-sheriff, prudently pulled
up at the top of the hill, and observing his principal bend his head
forwards and act like a drunken man, until he reeled, limp and sideways,
from the saddle, and noticing further that Jeff took his place with a
well-filled saddle-bag, concluded to follow cautiously and unobtrusively
in the rear.

VII.

But Jeff saw him not. With mind and will bent on one object--to reach
the first habitation, the "Summit," and send back help and assistance to
his wounded comrade--he urged Rabbit forward. The mare knew her rider,
but he had no time for caresses. Through the smarting of his hands he
had only just noticed that they were badly burned, and the skin was
peeling from them; he had confounded the blood that was flowing from a
cut on his scalp, with that from the wounded horse. It was one hour yet
to the "Summit," but the road was good, the moon was bright, he knew
what Rabbit could do, and it was not yet ten o'clock.

As the white outbuildings and irregular outlines of the "Summit House"
began to be visible, Jeff felt a singular return of his former dreamy
abstraction. The hour of peril, anger, and excitement he had just passed
through seemed something of years ago, or rather to be obliterated with
all else that had passed since he had looked upon that scene. Yet it
was all changed--strangely changed! What Jeff had taken for the white,
wooden barns and outhouses were greenhouses and conservatories. The
"Summit Hotel" was a picturesque villa, nestling in the self-same
trees, but approached through cultivated fields, dwellings of laborers,
parklike gates and walls, and all the bountiful appointments of wealth
and security. Jeff thought of Yuba Bill's malediction, and understood it
as he gazed.

The barking of dogs announced his near approach to the principal
entrance. Lights were still burning in the upper windows of the house
and its offices. He was at once surrounded by the strange medley of
a Californian ranchero's service, peons, Chinese, and vaqueros. Jeff
briefly stated his business. "Ah, Carrajo!" This was a matter for the
major-domo, or, better, the padrone--Wilson! But the padrone, Wilson,
called out by the tumult, appeared in person--a handsome, resolute,
middle-aged man, who, in a twinkling, dispersed the group to barn and
stable with a dozen orders of preparation, and then turned to Jeff.

"You are hurt; come in."

Jeff followed him dazedly into the house. The same