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Then out of his door and down the walk strode–not the polychromatic victim of a lost summertime, but the sheepman, rehabilitated. He wore his old grey woolen shirt, open at the throat, his brown duck trousers stuffed into his run-over boots, and his white felt sombrero on the back of his head. Twenty years or fifty he might look; Dry Valley cared not. His light blue eyes met Panchita’s dark ones with a cold flash in them. He came as far as the gate. He pointed with his long arm to her house.

“Go home,” said Dry Valley. “Go home to your mother. I wonder lightnin’ don’t strike a fool like me. Go home and play in the sand. What business have you got cavortin’ around with grown men? I reckon I was locoed to be makin’ a he poll-parrot out of myself for a kid like you. Go home and don’t let me see you no more. Why I done it, will somebody tell me? Go home, and let me try and forget it.”

Panchita obeyed and walked slowly toward her home, saying nothing. For some distance she kept her head turned and her large eyes fixed intrepidly upon Dry Valley’s. At her gate she stood for a moment looking back at him, then ran suddenly and swiftly into the house.

Old Antonia was building a fire in the kitchen stove. Dry Valley stopped at the door and laughed harshly.

“I’m a pretty looking old rhinoceros to be gettin’ stuck on a kid, ain’t I, ‘Tonia?” said he.

“Not verree good thing,” agreed Antonia, sagely, “for too much old man to likee /muchacha/.”

“You bet it ain’t,” said Dry Valley, grimly. “It’s dum foolishness; and, besides, it hurts.”

He brought at one armful the regalia of his aberration–the blue tennis suit, shoes, hat, gloves and all, and threw them in a pile at Antonia’s feet.

“Give them to your old man,” said he, “to hunt antelope in.”

Just as the first star presided palely over the twilight Dry Valley got his biggest strawberry book and sat on the back steps to catch the last of the reading light. He thought he saw the figure of someone in his strawberry patch. He laid aside the book, got his whip and hurried forth to see.

It was Panchita. She had slipped through the picket fence and was half-way across the patch. She stopped when she saw him and looked at him without wavering.

A sudden rage–a humiliating flush of unreasoning wrath–came over Dry Valley. For this child he had made himself a motley to the view. He had tried to bribe Time to turn backward for himself; he had–been made a fool of. At last he had seen his folly. There was a gulf between him and youth over which he could not build a bridge even with yellow gloves to protect his hands. And the sight of his torment coming to pester him with her elfin pranks–coming to plunder his strawberry vines like a mischievous schoolboy–roused all his anger.

“I told you to keep away from here,” said Dry Valley. “Go back to your home.”

Panchita moved slowly toward him.

Dry Valley cracked his whip.

“Go back home,” said Dry Valley, savagely, “and play theatricals some more. You’d make a fine man. You’ve made a fine one of me.”

She came a step nearer, silent, and with that strange, defiant, steady shine in her eyes that had always puzzled him. Now it stirred his wrath.

His whiplash whistled through the air. He saw a red streak suddenly come out through her white dress above her knee where it had struck.

Without flinching and with the same unchanging dark glow in her eyes, Panchita came steadily toward him through the strawberry vines. Dry Valley’s trembling hand released his whip handle. When within a yard of him Panchita stretched out her arms.

“God, kid!” stammered Dry Valley, “do you mean–?”

But the seasons are versatile; and it may have been Springtime, after all, instead of Indian Summer, that struck Dry Valley Johnson.