"Yes--and as belligerent as old billy-owl. He pretends to look after
the stock. I ordered him off the ranch last week; but do you think
he'd go? Not much. He went inside his shack, sorted out a rifle, came
outside, sat down, and fondled the weapon all day long. Ever since
then he has carried it, mounted or afoot. So I haven't bothered him.
He's a bad old Indian, and when I secure final title to the ranch, I'll
have the sheriff of the county come out and remove him."

"But how does he live, dear?"

"How does any Indian live? He killed a steer last week, jerked half of
it, and sold the other half for some beans and flour. It wasn't his
steer and it wasn't mine. It belonged to the Farrel estate, and, since
there is nobody to lodge a complaint against him, I suppose he'll kill
another steer when his rations run low. This way, daughter. Right
through the hole in the wall."

They passed through a big inset gate in the adobe wall, into the patio.
At once the scent of lemon and orange blossoms, mingled with the more
delicate aroma of flowers, assailed them. Kay stood, entranced, gazing
upon the hodgepodge of color; she had the feeling of having stepped out
of one world into another.

Her father stood watching her.

"Wonderful old place, isn't it, Kay?" he suggested. "The garden has
been neglected, but I'm going to clean it out."

"Do not touch it," she commanded, almost sharply. "I want it the way