s he had
learned when a shepherd. He could track a wounded deer for miles, when
another could not see a trace of where the animal had passed. He could
recognize the footprint of his favorite saddle pony among a thousand
others. How he did these things he did not know himself. These
companions were graduates of different schools, extremes of different
nationalities. Yet Alexander Wells had no desire to elevate the old
hunter to his own standard, preferring to sit at his feet.

But finally the appearance of blades of grass and early flowers
warned them that winter was gone and that spring was at hand. Their
occupation, therefore, was at an end. Now how to satisfy the folks
at home and get a further extension of time was the truant's supreme
object. While he always professed obedience to parental demands, yet
rebellion was brewing, for he did not want to go East--not just yet.
Imperative orders to return were artfully parried. Finally remittances
were withheld, but he had no use for money. Coercion was bad policy
to use in his case. Thus a third and a fourth winter passed, and the
young hunter was enjoying life on the Salado, where questions of state
and nation did not bother him.

But this existence had an end. One day in the spring a conveyance
drove up to the cabin, and an elderly, well-dressed woman alighted.
With the assistance of her driver she ran the gauntlet of dogs and
reached the cabin door, which was open. There, sitting inside on a
dry cow-skin which was spread on the clay floor, was the object of
her visit, surrounded by a group of Mexican companions, playing a game
called monte. The absorbing interest taken in the cards had prevented
the inmates of the jacal from noticing the lady's approach until
she stood opposite the door. On the appearance of a woman, the game
instantly ceased. Recognition was mutual, but neither mother nor son
spoke a word. Her eye took in the surroundings at a glance. Finally
she spoke with a half-concealed imperiousness of tone, though her
voice was quiet and kindly.

"Alexander, if you wish to see your mother, come to San Antonio, won't
you, please?" and turning, she retraced her steps toward the carriage.

Her son arose from his squatting posture, hitching up one side of his
trousers, then the other, for he was suspenderless, and following at
a distance, scratching his head and hitching his trousers alternately,
he at last managed to say, "Ah, well--why--if you can wait a few
m