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them, with the little gulch dressed riotously in its gala best of yellows.

      "You've got that fine," he told her enthusiastically.

      She shook her head, unmoved by praise which did not approve itself to her judgment as merited.

      "No, I didn't get it at all. A great artist might get the wonder of it; but I can't."

      "It looks good to me," he said.

      "Then I'm afraid you're not a judge," she smiled.

      From where they stood a trail wound along the ridge and down into a valley beyond. At the farther edge of this, nestling close to the hills that took root there, lay the houses of a ranch.

      "That is where I live," she told him.

      He thought it a lovely spot, almost worthy of her, but obviously he could not tell her so. Instead, he voiced an alien thought that happened to intrude:

      "Do you know Señorita Valdés? But of course you must."

      She flung a quick glance at him, questioning.

      "Yes, I know her."

      "She lives somewhere round here, too, does she not?"

      Her arm swept round in a comprehensive gesture. "Over that way, too."

      "Do you know her well?"

      An odd smile dimpled her face.

      "Sometimes I think I do, and then again I wonder."

      "I have been told she is beautiful."

      "Beauty is in the beholder's eyes, señor. Valencia Valdés is as Heaven made her."

      "I have no doubt; but Heaven took more pains with some of us than others—it appears."

      Again the dark eyes under the long lashes swept him from the curly head to the lean, muscular hands, and approved silently the truth of his observation. The clean lithe build of the man, muscles packed so that they rippled smoothly like those of a panther, appealed to her trained eyes. So, too, did the quiet, steady eyes in the bronzed face, holding as they did the look of competent alertness that had come from years of frontier life.

      "You are interested in Miss Valdés?" she asked politely.

      "In a way of speaking, I am. She is one of the reasons why I came here."

      "Indeed! She would no doubt be charmed to know of your interest," still with polite detachment.

      "My interest ain't exactly personal; then again it is," he contributed.

      "A sort of an impersonal personal interest?"

      "Yes; though I don't quite know what that means."

      "Then I can't be expected to," she laughed.

      His laughter joined hers; but presently he recurred to his question:

      "You haven't told me yet about Miss Valdés. Is she as lovely as they say she is?"

      "I don't know just how lovely they say she is. Sometimes I have thought her very passable; then again—" She broke off with a defiant little laugh. "Don't you know, sir, that you mustn't ask one lady to praise the beauty of another?"

      "I suppose I may ask questions?" he said, much amused.

      "It depends a little on the questions."

      "Is she tall?"

      "Rather. About as tall as I am."

      "And dark, of course, since she is a Spanish señorita"

      "Yes, she is dark."

      "Slim and graceful, I expect?"

      "She is slender."

      "I reckon she banks a heap on that blue blood of hers?"

      "Yes; she is prouder of it than there is really any need of, though I think probably her pride is unconscious and a matter of habit."

      "I haven't been able to make out yet whether you like her," he laughed.

      "I don't see what my liking has to do with it."

      "I expect to meet her, and I want to use your judgment to base mine on."

      "Oh, you expect to meet her?"

      She said it lightly, yet with a certain emphasis that he noted.

      "Don't you think she will let me? Do I have to show blue blood before I can be presented? One of my ancestors came over on the Mayflower. Will that do?"

      Her raillery met his.

      "That ought to do, I should think. I suppose you have brought genealogical proofs with you?"

      "I clean forgot. Won't you please get on and ride now? I feel like a false alarm, playing the invalid on you, ma'am."

      "No; I'll walk. We're almost at the ranch. It's just under this hill. But there's one thing I want to ask of you as a favor."

      "It's yours," he replied briefly.

      She seemed to struggle with some emotion before she spoke:

      "Please don't mention Valencia Valdés while you are at the ranch. I—I have reasons, sir."

      "Certainly; I'll do as you prefer."

      To himself he thought that there was probably a feud of some kind between the two families that might make a mention of the name unpleasant. "And that reminds me that I don't know what your name is. Mine is Muir—Richard Muir."

      "And mine is Maria Yuste."

      He offered her his brown hand. "I'm right happy to meet you, Señorita Maria."

      "Welcome to the Yuste hacienda, señor. What is ours is yours, so long as you are our guest. I pray you make yourself at home," she said as they rode into the courtyard.

      Two Mexican lads came running forward; and one whom she called Pedro took the horse, while the other went into the house to attend to a quick command she gave in Spanish.

      The man who had named himself Richard Muir followed his hostess through a hall, across an open court, and into a living-room carpeted with Navajo rugs, at the end of which was a great open fireplace bearing a Spanish motto across it.

      Large windows, set three feet deep in the thick adobe walls, were filled with flowers or padded with sofa pillows for seats. One of these his hostess indicated to the limping man.

      "If you will be seated here for the present, sir, your room will be ready very soon."

      A few minutes later the fisherman found himself in a large bedroom. He was seated in an easy-chair before a crackling fire of piñon knots.

      A messenger had been dispatched for a doctor, Señorita Yuste had told him, and in the meantime he was to make himself quite at home.

CHAPTER IV

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