pervaded the rooms that were less stifling than others, and this
odor Florence explained came from a liquor the Mexicans distilled
from a cactus plant. Here drunkenness was manifest, a terrible
inert drunkenness that made its victims deathlike.

Madeline could not extend her visit to the little mission-house.
She saw a padre, a starved, sad-faced man who, she instinctively
felt, was good. She managed to mount her horse and ride up to
the house; but, once there, she weakened and Florence had almost
to carry her in-doors. She fought off a faintness, only to
succumb to it when alone in her room. Still, she did not entirely
lose consciousness, and soon recovered to the extent that she did
not require assistance.

Upon the morning after the end of the round-up, when she went out
on the porch, her brother and Stillwell appeared to be arguing
about the identity of a horse.

"Wal, I reckon it's my old roan," said Stillwell, shading his
eves with his hand.

"Bill, if that isn't Stewart's horse my eyes are going back on
me," replied Al. "It's not the color or shape--the distance is
too far to judge by that. It's the motion--the swing."

"Al, mebbe you're right. But they ain't no rider up on thet
hoss. Flo, fetch my glass."

Florence went into the house, while Madeline tried to discover
the object of attention. Presently far up the gray hollow along