subtly the last word in a manner that somehow made me just a trifle
ashamed.

At the close of the meal the Mexican familiar glided into the room.
Hooper seemed to understand the man's presence, for he arose at once.

"Your horse is saddled and ready," he told me, briskly. "You will be
wishing to start before the heat of the day. Your _cantinas_ are ready
on the saddle."

He clapped on his hat and we walked together to the corral. There
awaited us not only my own horse, but another. The equipment of the
latter was magnificently reminiscent of the old California
days--gaily-coloured braided hair bridle and reins; silver _conchas_;
stock saddle of carved leather with silver horn and cantle; silvered bit
bars; gay Navajo blanket as corona; silver corners to skirts, silver
_conchas_ on the long _tapaderos_. Old Man Hooper, strangely incongruous
in his wrinkled "store clothes," swung aboard.

"I will ride with you for a distance," he said.

We jogged forth side by side at the slow Spanish trot. Hooper called my
attention to the buildings of Fort Shafter glimmering part way up the
slopes of the distant mountains, and talked entertainingly of the Indian
days, and how the young officers used to ride down to his ranch for
music.

After a half hour thus we came to the long string of wire and the huge,
awkward gate that marked the limit of Hooper's "pasture." Of course the
open range was his real pasture; but every ranch enclosed a thousand