Robles Rancho. If her tears were near the surface, they were at least
genuine, and filmed her violet eyes and reddened her pretty eyelids
quite as effectually as if they had welled from the depths of her being.
Her black frock lent a matured dignity to her figure, and paled her
delicate complexion with the refinement of suffering. Even Clarence was
moved in that dark and haggard abstraction that had settled upon him
since his strange outbreak over the body of his old friend.

The extent of that change had not been noticed by Mrs. Peyton, who
had only observed that Clarence had treated her grief with a grave and
silent respect. She was grateful for that. A repetition of his boyish
impulsiveness would have been distasteful to her at such a moment. She
only thought him more mature and more subdued, and as the only man now
in her household his services had been invaluable in the emergency.

The funeral had taken place at Santa Inez, where half the county
gathered to pay their last respects to their former fellow-citizen and
neighbor, whose legal and combative victories they had admired, and whom
death had lifted into a public character. The family were returning to
the house the same afternoon, Mrs. Peyton and the girls in one carriage,
the female house-servants in another, and Clarence on horseback. They
had reached the first plateau, and Clarence was riding a little in
advance, when an extraordinary figure, rising from the grain beyond,
began to gesticulate to him wildly. Checking the driver of the first
carriage, Clarence bore down upon the stranger. To his amazement it
was Jim Hooker. Mounted on a peaceful, unwieldy plough horse, he was
nevertheless accoutred and armed after his most extravagant fashion.
In addition to a heavy rifle across his saddle-bow he was weighted down
with a knife and revolvers. Clarence was in no mood for trifling, and
almost rudely demanded his business.