d fallen down, lifeless. The chaparral was
destitute of foliage, and on the divides and higher mesas, had died. The
native women stripped their _jacals_ of every sacred picture, and hung
them on the withered trees about their doors, where they hourly prayed
to their patron saints. In the humblest homes on Las Palomas, candles
burned both night and day to appease the frowning Deity.

The white element on the ranch worked almost unceasingly, stirring the
Mexicans to the greatest effort. The middle of June passed without a
drop of rain, but on the morning of the twentieth, after working all
night, as Pasquale Arispe and I were drawing water from a well on the
border of the encinal I felt a breeze spring up, that started the
windmill. Casting my eyes upward, I noticed that the wind had veered to
a quarter directly opposite to that of the customary coast breeze. Not
being able to read aright the portent of the change in the wind, I had
to learn from that native-born son of the soil: "Tomas," he cried,
riding up excitedly, "in three days it will rain! Listen to me: Pasquale
Arispe says that in three days the _arroyos_ on the hacienda of Don
Lancelot will run like a mill-race. See, _companero_, the wind has
changed. The breeze is from the northwest this morning. Before three
days it will rain! Madre de Dios!"

The wind from the northwest continued steadily for two days, relieving
us from work. On the morning of the third day the signs in sky and air
were plain for falling weather. Cattle, tottering with weakness, came
into the well, and after drinking, playfully kicked up their heels on
leaving. Before noon the storm struck us like a cloud-burst. Pasquale
and I took refuge under the wagon to avoid the hailstones. In spite of
the parched ground drinking to its contentment, water flooded under the
wagon, driving us out. But we laughed at the violence of the deluge, and
after making everything secure, saddled our horses and set out for home,
taking our relay mounts with us. It was fifteen miles to the ranch and
in the eye of the storm; but the loose horses faced the rain as if they
enjoyed it, while those under saddle followed the free ones as a hound
does a scent. Within two hours after leaving the well, we reined in at
the gate, and I saw Uncle Lance and a number of the boys promenading the
gallery. But the old ranchero leisurely walked down the pathway to the
gate, and amid the downpour shouted to us: "Turn those horses loose;