foot, to visit the Mission shortly after Don Mike
and Pablo had left the ranch that morning, and for this Parker was duly
grateful to Providence. He shuddered to think what the effect upon
them would have been had they been present when Pablo made his
spectacular entrance; he rejoiced at an opportunity to get himself in
hand against the return of Kay and her mother to the ranch house.

"That wretched Okada!" he groaned. "He concluded that the simplest and
easiest way to an immediate consummation of our interrupted deal would
be the removal of young Farrel. So he hired one of his countrymen to
do the job, believing or at least hoping, that suspicion would
naturally be aroused against that Basque, Loustalot, who is known to
have an old feud with the Farrels. Kate is right. I've trained with
white men all my life; the moment I started to train with pigmented
mongrels and Orientals I had to do with a new psychology, with
mongrelized moral codes--ah, God, that splendid, manly fellow killed by
the insatiable lust of an alien race for this land of his they covet!
God forgive me! And poor Kay--"

He was near to tears now; fearful that he might be caught in a moment
of weakness, he fled to the barn and helped Pablo hitch a team of draft
horses to an old spring wagon. Pablo's customary taciturnity and
primitive stoicism had again descended upon him like a protecting
garment; his madness had passed and he moved around the team briskly
and efficiently. Parker climbed to the seat beside him as Pablo
gathered up the reins and started out of the farmyard at a fast trot.

Ten minutes later they paused at the mouth of the draw down which
Farrel had been riding when fired upon. Pablo turned the team, tied
them to an oak tree and started up the draw at a swift dog trot, with
Parker at his heels.

Jammed rather tightly in a narrow little dry water-course that ran
through the center of the draw they found the body of Don Mike. He was
lying face downward; Parker saw that flies already rosetted a wound
thick with blood clots on top of his head.

"Poor, poor boy," Parker cried agonizedly.

Pablo straddled the little watercourse, got a grip around his master's
body and lifted it out to Parker, who received it and laid the limp
form out on the grass. While he stood looking down at Don Mike's
white, relaxed face, Pablo knelt, made the sign of the cross and
commenced to pray for the peaceful repose of his roaster's soul. It
was