gardens into the open. Gale saw an adobe shed and a huge pen fenced by
strangely twisted and contorted branches or trunks of mesquite, and,
beyond these, wide, flat fields, green--a dark, rich green--and dotted
with beautiful horses. There were whites and blacks, and bays and
grays. In his admiration Gale searched his memory to see if he could
remember the like of these magnificent animals, and had to admit that
the only ones he could compare with them were the Arabian steeds.

"Every ranch loves his horses," said Belding. "When I was in the
Panhandle I had some fine stock. But these are Mexican. They came
from Durango, where they were bred. Mexican horses are the finest in
the world, bar none."

"Shore I reckon I savvy why you don't sleep nights," drawled Laddy. "I
see a Greaser out there--no, it's an Indian."

"That's my Papago herdsman. I keep watch over the horses now day and
night. Lord, how I'd hate to have Rojas or Salazar--any of those
bandit rebels--find my horses!... Gale, can you ride?"

Dick modestly replied that he could, according to the Eastern idea of
horsemanship.

"You don't need to be half horse to ride one of that bunch. But over
there in the other field I've iron-jawed broncos I wouldn't want you to
tackle--except to see the fun. I've an outlaw I'll gamble even Laddy
can't ride."

"So. How much'll you gamble?" asked Laddy, instantly.

The ringing of a bell, which Belding said was a call to supper, turned
the men back toward the house. Facing that way, Gale saw dark,
beetling ridges rising from the oasis and leading up to bare, black
mountains. He had heard Belding call them No Name Mountains, and
somehow the appellation suited those lofty, mysterious, frowning peaks.

It was not until they reached the house and were about to go in that
Belding chanced to discover Gale's crippled hand.

"What an awful hand!" he exclaimed. "Where the devil did you get that?"

"I stove in my knuckles on Rojas," replied Dick.

"You did that in one punch? Say, I'm glad it wasn't me you hit! Why
didn't you tell me? That's a bad hand. Those cuts are full of dirt
and sand. Inflammation's setting in. It's got to be dressed. Nell!"
he called.

There was no answer. He called again, louder.

"Mother, where's the girl?"

"She's there in the dining-room," replied Mrs. Belding.

"Did she hear me?" he inquired, impatiently.

"Of course."

"Nell!" roared Belding.

This brought results.