Pablo rose creakily and opened a mouth in which not a tooth was
missing. Old Don Miguel made a most minute examination, but failed to
discover the slightest evidence of deterioration.

"Blood of the devil!" he cried, disgusted beyond measure. "Out with
thy secret! It has annoyed me for a month."

"The ache is not in my teeth, Don Miguel. It is here." And Pablo laid
a swarthy hand upon his torso. "There is a sadness in my heart, Don
Miguel. Two years has Don Mike been with the soldiers. Is it not time
that he returned to us?"

Don Miguel's aristocratic old face softened.

"So that is what disturbs thee, my Pablo?"

Pablo nodded miserably, seated himself, and resumed his task of
fashioning the hondo of a new rawhide riata.

"It is a very dry year," he complained. "Never before have I seen
December arrive ere the grass in the San Gregorio was green with the
October rains. Everything is burned; the streams and the springs have
dried up, and for a month I have listened to hear the quail call on the
hillside yonder. But I listen in vain. The quail have moved to
another range."

"Well, what of it, Pablo?"

"How our beloved Don Mike enjoyed the quail-shooting in the fall!