for the wives and children of the herders. Each home maintained a
small garden of flowers and vegetables. Across the somber brown of the
'dobe walls hung strings of chiles drying in the sun. Gay blossoms,
neatly kept garden rows, red ollas hanging in the shade of cypress and
acacia, the rose-bordered plaza on which fronted the house of the
patron, the gigantic windmill purring lazily and turning now to the
right, now to the left, to meet the varying breeze, the entire prospect
was in its pastoral quietude a reflection of Señora Loring's sweet and
placid nature. Innuendo might include the windmill, and justly so, for
the Señora in truth met the varying breeze of circumstance and
invariably turned it to good uses, cooling the hot temper of the patron
with a flow of soft Spanish utterances, and enriching the simple lives
of the little colony with a charity as free and unvarying as the flow
of the clear, cool water.

Far to the east, where the mesas sloped gently to the hills, grazed the
sheep, some twenty bands of a thousand each, and each band guarded and
cared for by a herder and an assistant who cooked and at times
journeyed with the lazy burros to and from the hacienda for supplies
and provisions.

David Loring, erstwhile plainsman and scout, had drifted in the early
days from New Mexico to Arizona with his small band of sheep, and
settled in the valley of the Concho. He had been tolerated by the
cattle-men, as his flock was but a speck on the limitless mesas. As
his holdings increased, the ranchers awakened to the fact that he had
come to stay and that some boundary must be established to protect
their grazing. The Concho River was chosen as the dividing line, which
would have been well enough had Loring been a party to the agreement.
But he declined to recognize any boundary. The cattle-men felt that