very easily to its customs, and living like a cowboy after he had
acquired enormous properties. The country folk, wishing to put a title
of respect before his name, called him Don Madariaga.

"Comrade," he said to Desnoyers one day when he happened to be in a good
humor--a very rare thing for him--"you must have passed through many ups
and downs. Your lack of silver may be smelled a long ways off. Why lead
such a dog's life? Trust in me, Frenchy, and remain here! I am growing
old, and I need a man."

After the Frenchman had arranged to stay with Madariaga, every landed
proprietor living within fifteen or twenty leagues of the ranch, stopped
the new employee on the road to prophesy all sorts of misfortune.

"You will not stay long. Nobody can get along with Don Madariaga. We
have lost count of his overseers. He is a man who must be killed or
deserted. Soon you will go, too!"

Desnoyers did not doubt but that there was some truth in all this.
Madariaga was an impossible character, but feeling a certain sympathy
with the Frenchman, had tried not to annoy him with his irritability.

"He's a regular pearl, this Frenchy," said the plainsman as though
trying to excuse himself for his considerate treatment of his latest
acquisition. "I like him because he is very serious. . . . That is the
way I like a man."

Desnoyers did not know exactly what this much-admired seriousness could
be, but he felt a secret pride in seeing him aggressive with everybody
else, even his family, whilst he took with him a tone of paternal