what is he bringing?
The wagon of the country!"

Abel Hudson was standing erect on the low floor of a wagon drawn by two
strong black mules. The wagon was a clumsy affair,--a large wooden frame
covered with rawhide, and set upon a heavy axle. The wheels were made of
solid sections of trees, and the harness was of greenhide. An Indian boy
sat astride one of the mules. On either side rode a vaquero, with his
reata fastened to the axle-tree.

"This is the best I can do," said Hudson. "There is probably not another
American wagon between San Luis and Miramar. Do you think you can stand
it?"

The girls shrugged their pretty shoulders. The men swore into their
mustachios. Dona Pomposa groaned at the prospect of a long ride in a
springless wagon. But no one was willing to return, and when Eulogia
jumped lightly in, all followed, and Hudson placed them as comfortably
as possible, although they were obliged to sit on the floor.

The wagon jolted down the canon, the mules plunging, the vaqueros
shouting; but the moon glittered like a silvered snow peak, the wild
green forest was about them, and even Eulogia grew a little sentimental
as Abel Hudson's blue eyes bent over hers and his curly head cut off
Dona Pomposa's view.

"Dear senorita," he said, "thy tongue is very sharp, but thou hast a
kind heart. Hast thou no place in it for Abel Hudson?"

"In the sala, senor--where many others are received--with mamma and Aunt
Anastacia sitting in the corner."

He laughed. "Thou wilt always jest! But I would take all the rooms, and
turn every one out, even to Dona Pomposa and Dona Anastacia!"

"And leave me alone with you! God of my soul! How I should yawn!"

"Oh, yes, Dona Coquetta, I am used to such pretty little speeches. When
you began to yawn I should ride away, and you would be glad to see me
when I returned."

"What would you bring me from the mountains, senor?"

He looked at her steadily. "Gold, senorita. I know of many rich veins.
I have a little canon suspected by no one else, where I pick out a sack
full of gold in a day. Gold makes the life of a beloved wife very sweet,
senorita."

"In truth I should like the gold better than yourself, senor," said
Eulogia, frankly. "For if you will have the truth--Ay! Holy heaven! This
is worse than the other!"

A lurch, splash, and the party with shrill cries sprang to their feet;
the low cart was filling with water. They had left the canon and were
crossing a slough; no one h