rship, always running second and
after on the narrow trails as a subdued dog should, he learned the ways
and habits of the foxes, the coons, the weasels, and the ring-tail cats
that seemed compounded of cat and coon and weasel. He came to know the
ground-nesting birds and the difference between the customs of the valley
quail, the mountain quail, and the pheasants. The traits and lairs of
the domestic cats gone wild he also learned, as did he learn the wild
loves of mountain farm-dogs with the free-roving coyotes.

He knew of the presence of the mountain lion, adrift down from Mendocino
County, ere the first shorthorn calf was slain, and came home from the
encounter, torn and bleeding, to attest what he had discovered and to be
the cause of Harley Kennan riding trail next day with a rifle across his
pommel. Likewise Michael came to know what Harley Kennan never did know
and always denied as existing on his ranch--the one rocky outcrop, in the
dense heart of the mountain forest, where a score of rattlesnakes denned
through the winters and warmed themselves in the sun.

CHAPTER XXXVI

Winter came on in its delectable way in the Valley of the Moon. The last
Mariposa lily vanished from the burnt grasses as the California Indian
summer dreamed itself out in purple mists on the windless air. Soft rain-
showers first broke the spell. Snow fell on the summit of Sonoma
Mountain. At the ranch house the morning air was crisp and brittle, yet
mid-day made the shade welcome, and in the open, under the winter sun,
roses bloomed and oranges, grape-fruit, and lemons turned to golden
yellow ripeness. Yet, a thousand feet beneath, on the floor of the
valley, the mornings were white with frost.

And Michael barked twice. The first time was when Harley Kennan, astride
a hot-blooded sorrel colt, tried to make it leap a narrow stream. Villa
reined in her steed at the crest beyond, and, looking back into the
little valley, waited for the colt to receive its lesson. Michael
waited, too, but closer at hand. At first he lay down, panting from his
run, by the stream-edge. But he did not know horses very well, and soon
his anxiety for the welfare of Harley Kennan brought him to his feet.

Harley was gentle and persuasive and all patience as he strove to make
the colt take the leap. The urge of voice and rein was of the mildest;
but the animal balked the take-off each time, and the hot
thoroughbredness in its veins made it