d Pablo," he queried, "what has come over thee of late? Thou
art of a mien as sorrowful as that of a sick steer. Can it be that thy
stomach refuses longer to digest thy food? Come; permit me to examine
thy teeth. Yes, by my soul; therein lies the secret. Thou hast a
toothache and decline to complain, thinking that, by thy silence, I
shall be saved a dentist's bill." But Pablo shook his head in
negation. "Come!" roared old Don Miguel. "Open thy mouth!"

Pablo rose creakily and opened a mouth in which not a tooth was
missing. Old Don Miguel made a most minute examination, but failed to
discover the slightest evidence of deterioration.

"Blood of the devil!" he cried, disgusted beyond measure. "Out with
thy secret! It has annoyed me for a month."

"The ache is not in my teeth, Don Miguel. It is here." And Pablo laid
a swarthy hand upon his torso. "There is a sadness in my heart, Don
Miguel. Two years has Don Mike been with the soldiers. Is it not time
that he returned to us?"

Don Miguel's aristocratic old face softened.

"So that is what disturbs thee, my Pablo?"

Pablo nodded miserably, seated himself, and resumed his task of
fashioning the hondo of a new rawhide riata.

"It is a very dry year," he complained. "Never before have I seen
December arrive ere the grass in the San Gregorio was green with the
October rains. Everything is burned; the streams and the springs have
dried up, and for a month I have listened to hear the quail call on the
hillside yonder. But I listen in vain. The quail have moved to
another range."

"Well, what of it, Pablo?"

"How our beloved Don Mike enjoyed the quail-shooting in the fall!
Should he return now to the Palomar, there will be no quail to shoot."
He wagged his gray head sorrowfully. "Don Mike will think that, with
the years, laziness and ingratitude have descended upon old Pablo.
Truly, Satan afflicts me." And he cursed with great depth of
feeling--in English.

"Yes, poor boy," old Don Miguel agreed; "he will miss more than the
quail-shooting when he returns--if he should return. They sent him to
Siberia to fight the Bolsheviki."

"What sort of country is this where Don Mike slays our enemy?" Pablo
queried.

"It is always winter there, Pablo. It is inhabited by a wild race of
men with much whiskers."

"Ah, our poor Don Mike! And he a child of the sun!"

"He but does his duty," old Don Miguel replied proudly. "He adds to
the fame of an illus