.

"Borrowing money of S. Behrman," commented Annixter, "mortgaging your
little homestead to the railroad, putting your neck in the halter. Poor
fool! The pity of it. Good Lord, your hops must pay you big, now, old
man."

Annixter lunched at the Yosemite Hotel, and then later on, toward the
middle of the afternoon, rode out of the town at a canter by the way
of the Upper Road that paralleled the railroad tracks and that ran
diametrically straight between Bonneville and Guadalajara. About
half-way between the two places he overtook Father Sarria trudging back
to San Juan, his long cassock powdered with dust. He had a wicker crate
in one hand, and in the other, in a small square valise, the materials
for the Holy Sacrament. Since early morning the priest had covered
nearly fifteen miles on foot, in order to administer Extreme Unction to
a moribund good-for-nothing, a greaser, half Indian, half Portuguese,
who lived in a remote corner of Osterman's stock range, at the head of
a canon there. But he had returned by way of Bonneville to get a crate
that had come for him from San Diego. He had been notified of its
arrival the day before.

Annixter pulled up and passed the time of day with the priest.

"I don't often get up your way," he said, slowing down his horse to
accommodate Sarria's deliberate plodding. Sarria wiped the perspiration
from his smooth, shiny face.

"You? Well, with you it is different," he answered. "But there are a
great many Catholics in the county--some on your ranch. And so few come
to the Mission. At High Mass on Sundays, there are a few--Mexicans and
Spaniards from Guadalajara mostly; but weekdays, for matins, vespers,
and the like, I often say the offices to an empty church--'the voice
of one crying in the wilderness.' You Americans are not good churchmen.
Sundays you sleep--you read the newspapers."

"Well, there's Vanamee," observed Annixter. "I suppose he's there early
and late."

Sarria made a sharp movement of interest.

"Ah, Vanamee--a strange lad; a wonderful character, for all that. If
there were only more like him. I am troubled about him. You know I am a
very owl at night. I come and go about the Mission at all hours. Within
the week, three times I have seen Vanamee in the little garden by the
Mission, and at the dead of night. He had come without asking for me. He
did not see me. It was strange. Once, when I had got up at dawn to ring
for early matins, I saw him stealing away out