Barbara turned to follow. "Good-by, Mr. Wheeler. Tell Mrs. Wheeler
I'm going to ride out to see her soon. I haven't forgotten that good
buttermilk you see."

"Good-by, Miss Barbara, good-by! I'll tell the wife. We're always
glad to see you."

The farmer could not have said that Jefferson Worth's face changed
or that his voice altered a shade in tone as they turned again to
the business in hand. "I guess we can fix you out this time,
Wheeler. Sixty days, you say? You'd better make it ninety so you
will not be crowded in marketing your crop."

Quickly the black horse carrying Barbara passed through the streets
to the outskirts of the city, where the adobe houses of the earlier
days, with tents and shacks of every description, were scattered in
careless disorder to the very edge of the barren Mesa. Beyond the
wagon yard Barbara turned Pilot toward a whitewashed house that
stood by itself on the extreme outskirts. Her approach was announced
by the loud barking of a lean dog and the joyful shouts of three
half-naked Mexican children; and as the horse stopped a woman
appeared in the low doorway.

"Buenas dias, Senorita," she called; then, still in her native
tongue: "Manuel, take the lady's horse. You Juanita, drive that dog
away. This is not the manner to receive a lady. Come in, come in,
Senorita. May God bless you for a good friend to the poor. Come in."

Everything about the place, although showing unmistakable signs of