his momentary hesitation a singular sound aroused her. It seemed
at first like the swift hurrying by of some viewless courier of the
air, the vague alarm of some invisible flying herald, or like the
inarticulate cry that precedes a storm. It seemed to rise and fall
around her as if with some changing urgency of purpose. Raising her
eyes she suddenly recognized the two far-stretching lines of telegraph
wire above her head, and knew the aeolian cry of the morning wind along
its vibrating chords. But it brought another and more practical fear to
her active brain. Perhaps even now the telegraph might be anticipating
her! Had Poindexter thought of that? She hesitated no longer, but
laying the whip on the back of her jaded mustang, again hurried
forward.

As the level horizon grew more distinct, her attention was attracted by
the white sail of a small boat lazily threading the sinuous channel of
the slough. It might be Poindexter arriving by the more direct route
from the steamboat that occasionally laid off the ancient _embarcadero_
of the Los Cuervos Rancho. But even while watching it her quick ear
caught the sound of galloping hoofs behind her. She turned quickly and
saw she was followed by a horseman. But her momentary alarm was
succeeded by a feeling of relief as she recognized the erect figure and
square shoulders of Poindexter. Yet she could not help thinking that he
looked more like a militant scout, and less like a cautious legal
adviser, than ever.

With unaffected womanliness she rearranged her slightly disordered hair
as he drew up beside her. "I thought you were in yonder boat," she
said.

"Not I," he laughed; "I distanced you by the highroad two hours, and
have been reconnoitering, until I saw you hesitate at the cross-roads."

"But who is in the boat?" asked Mrs. Tucker, partly to hide her
embarrassment.

"Only some early Chinese market gardener, I dare say. But you are safe
now. You are on your own land. You passed the boundary monument of the
rancho five minutes ago. Look! All you see before you is yours from the
_embarcadero_ to yonder Coast Range."

The tone of half raillery did not, however, cheer Mrs. Tucker. She
shuddered slightly and cast her eyes over the monotonous sea of _tule_
and meadow.

"It doesn't look pretty, perhaps," continued Poindexter, "but it's the
richest land in the State, and the _embarcadero_ will some day be a
town. I suppose you'll call it Blue Grassville. But you seem tire