luxurious, and open-air indolence of his native South, in a climate that
was not only not tropical, but even austere in its most fervid moments.
Yet, although cold draughts invaded it from the rear that morning, Judge
Peyton sat alone, between the open doors and windows, awaiting the
slow coming of his wife and the young ladies. He was not in an entirely
comfortable mood that morning. Things were not going on well at Robles.
That truculent vagabond, Pedro, had, the night before, taken himself off
with a curse that had frightened even the vacqueros, who most hated him
as a companion, but who now seemed inclined to regard his absence as an
injury done to their race. Peyton, uneasily conscious that his own anger
had been excited by an exaggerated conception of the accident, was
now, like most obstinate men, inclined to exaggerate the importance of
Pedro's insolence. He was well out of it to get rid of this quarrelsome
hanger-on, whose presumption and ill-humor threatened the discipline of
the rancho, yet he could not entirely forget that he had employed him
on account of his family claims, and from a desire to placate racial
jealousy and settle local differences. For the inferior Mexicans and
Indian half-breeds still regarded their old masters with affection;
were, in fact, more concerned for the integrity of their caste than
the masters were themselves, and the old Spanish families who had made
alliances with Americans, and shared their land with them, had rarely
succeeded in alienating their retainers with their lands. Certain
experiences in the proving of his grant before the Land Commission had
taught Peyton that they were not to be depended upon. And lately
there had been unpleasant rumors of the discovery of some unlooked-for
claimants to a division of the grant itself, which might affect his own
title.

He looked up quickly as voices and light steps on the veranda at last
heralded the approach of his tardy household from the corridor. But, in