"Well," she replied, still with that bright, friendly, understanding
smile, "that might make a difference."

"I do not deserve such consideration. Consequently, for your gentle
forbearance, you shall be accorded a unique privilege--that of meeting
a dead soldier. I am Miguel José Farrel, better known as 'Don Mike,'
of the Rancho Palomar, and I own Panchito. To quote the language of
Mark Twain, 'the report of my death has been grossly exaggerated,' as
is the case of several thousand other soldiers in this man's army." He
chuckled as he saw a look of amazement replace the sweet smile. "And
you are Miss--" he queried.

She did not answer. She could only stare at him, and in that look he
thought he noted signs of perturbation. While he had talked, the train
had slid to a momentary halt for the flag-station, and while he waited
now for her name, the train began creeping out of Sespe.

"All right," he laughed. "You can tell me your name when we meet
again. I must run for it. Good-by." He hurried through the screen
door to the platform, stepped over the brass railing, and clung there a
moment, looking back into the car at her before dropping lightly to the
ground between the tracks.

"Now what the devil is the meaning of that?" he mused, as he stood
there watching the train. "There were tears in her eyes."

He crossed the tracks, climbed a fence, and after traversing a small
piece of bottom-land, entered a trail through the chaparral, and
started his upward climb to the crest of the range that hid the San
Gregorio. Suddenly he paused.