We were sitting upon the verandah oppressed with the weight of beans,
bacon, and soggy biscuit. As we smoked in silence our eyes rested
gloomily upon the landscape--our domain. Before us lay an amber-
coloured, sun-scorched plain; beyond were the foot-hills, bristling
with chaparral, scrub-oaks, pines and cedars; beyond these again rose
the grey peaks of the Santa Lucia range, pricking the eastern horizon.
Over all hung the palpitating skies, eternally and exasperatingly
blue, a-quiver with light and heat.

"Somebody's coming," said Ajax.

The country road, white with alkaline dust, crossed the ranch at right
angles. Far away, to the left, was a faint blur upon the pink hills.

"It's no wagon," said Ajax idly, "and a _vaquero_ would never
ride in the dust. It must be a buggy."

Five minutes later we could distinguish a quaint figure sitting
upright in an ancient buckboard whose wheels wobbled and creaked with
almost human infirmity. A mule furnished the motive power.

"Is it a man or a woman?" said Ajax.

"Possibly," I replied, "a cook."

"She is about to pay us a visit. Yes, it's a woman, a bundle of bones,
dust and alpaca crowned with a sombrero. A book-agent, I swear. Go and
tell her we have never learned to read."

I demurred. Finally we spun a dollar to decide upon which of us lay