of his shoulder. "Who knows? No
sooner does he reach one town than he is off for another. It is his
life, the madman, to bore a hole through this world of Christ. Just now
we were headed for the ranch of Dom Francisco. After that, who knows?
But he pays, friend. Gold oozes from him like matter from a sore."

They came to a spring. The stranger ordered up the fly of a tent. From
his baggage he took two wonderful folding-chairs and a folding-table,
opened them, and placed them under the fly. "Sit down," he said to
Lewis.

The stranger took off his helmet and tossed it on the ground. Lewis
pulled off his hat hurriedly and laid it aside. The stranger looked at
him long and earnestly.

"Are you hungry?"

Lewis shrugged his shoulders.

"One can always eat," he said.

"Good," said the stranger. "Please tell these loafers to off-load the
mules and set camp. And call that one here--the black fellow with a
necklace of chickens."

Lewis did as he was bidden. The man with the chickens stood before the
stranger and grinned.

The stranger raised his eyes on high.

"Ah, God," he said, "I give Thee thanks that at last I can talk to this
low-browed, brutal son of a degenerate race of cooks." He turned to
Lewis. "Tell him," he continued--"tell him that I never want to see
anything boiled again unless it's his live carcass boiling in oil. Tell
him that I hate the smell, the sight, and the sound of garlic. Tell him
that jerked beef is a fitting sustenance for maggots, but not for
hungering man. Tell him there is a place in the culinary art for red
peppers, but not by the handful. Tell him, may he burn hereafter as I
have burned within and lap up with joy the tears that I have shed in
pain. Tell him--tell him that."

For the first time in the presence of the stranger Lewis smiled. His
smile was rare and, as is often the case with a rare smile, it held
accumulated charm.

"Sir," he said, "let me cook a meal for you."

While Lewis cooked, the stranger laid the table for two. In less than an
hour the meal was ready. A young fowl, spitchcocked, nestled in a snowy
bed of rice, each grain of which was a world unto itself. The fowl was
basted with the sovereign gravy of the South; thick, but beaten smooth,
dusted with pepper and salt, breathing an essence of pork. Beside the
laden platter was a plate of crisp bread--bread that had been soaked
into freshness in a wet cloth and then toasted lightly. Beside the bread
lay a pat of fre