the house. It was too late, when they were freshened after the
ride, for any exploration outside the house on this evening. All
the visitors were ready for dinner when the Mexican waiter
announced it.

The servants included a Chinese cook, Mexican houseboys, and
negroes for the outside work. The life at Rose Ranch was evidently
a rather free and easy existence. The standards of etiquette were
not just the same as at the Mason house in Chicago; but the
Hammonds knew well how to make their guests feel at home. The
quality of the hospitality of the ranchman and his wife was not
strained.

The party lingered long at dinner, under the glow of a hanging lamp
that illuminated the table but left the corners and sides of the
great room in shadow. Now and then somebody would lounge in at the
doorway and speak to Mr. Hammond.

"Ah say, Boss, where'd you say Dan's outfit was goin'? I plumb
forgot."

"You'd forget your head, Carey, if it wasn't screwed on tight,"
declared the ranchman, without glancing at the big figure slouching
in the doorway. "Dan and his bunch light out for Beller's Gulch
come mornin'."

A little later it was a lighter step, and the jingle of spurs on
the veranda floor.

"Tumbleweed done sprung his knee, Mist' Ham-mon'. Kyan't use him