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Senor Johnson did not sleep. He was tough, and used to it. He lit a cigar and rambled about, now reading the newspapers he had brought with him, now prowling softly about the building, now visiting the corrals and outbuildings, once even the thousand-acre pasture where his saddle-horse knew him and came to him to have its forehead rubbed. The dawn broke in good earnest, throwing aside its gauzy draperies of mauve. Sang, the Chinese cook, built his fire. Senor Johnson forbade him to clang the rising bell, and himself roused the cow-punchers. The girl slept on. Senor Johnson tip-toed a dozen times to the bedroom door. Once he ventured to push it open. He looked long within, then shut it softly and tiptoed out into the open, his eyes shining.

“Jed,” he said to his foreman, “you don’t know how it made me feel. To see her lying there so pink and soft and pretty, with her yaller hair all tumbled about and a little smile on her–there in my old bed, with my old gun hanging over her that way–By Heaven, Jed, it made me feel almost HOLY!”

CHAPTER SIX

THE WAGON TIRE

About noon she emerged from the room, fully refreshed and wide awake. She and Susie O’Toole had unpacked at least one of the trunks, and now she stood arrayed in shirtwaist and blue skirt.

At once she stepped into the open air and looked about her with considerable curiosity.

“So this is a real cattle ranch,” was her comment.

Senor Johnson was at her side pressing on her with boyish eagerness the sights of the place. She patted the stag hounds and inspected the garden. Then, confessing herself hungry, she obeyed with alacrity Sang’s call to an early meal. At the table she ate coquettishly, throwing her birdlike side glances at the man opposite.

“I want to see a real cowboy,” she announced, as she pushed her chair back.

“Why, sure!” cried Senor Johnson joyously. “Sang! hi, Sang! Tell Brent Palmer to step in here a minute.”

After an interval the cowboy appeared, mincing in on his high-heeled boots, his silver spurs jingling, the fringe of his chaps impacting softly on the leather. He stood at ease, his broad hat in both hands, his dark, level brows fixed on his chief.

“Shake hands with Mrs. Johnson, Brent. I called you in because she said she wanted to see a real cow-puncher.”

“Oh, BUCK!” cried the woman.

For an instant the cow-puncher’s level brows drew together. Then he caught the woman’s glance fair. He smiled.

“Well, I ain’t much to look at,” he proffered.

“That’s not for you to say, sir,” said Estrella, recovering.

“Brent, here, gentled your pony for you,” exclaimed Senor Johnson.

“Oh,” cried Estrella, “have I a pony? How nice. And it was so good of you, Mr. Brent. Can’t I see him? I want to see him. I want to give him a piece of sugar.” She fumbled in the bowl.

“Sure you can see him. I don’t know as he’ll eat sugar. He ain’t that educated. Think you could teach him to eat sugar, Brent?”

“I reckon,” replied the cowboy.

They went out toward the corral, the cowboy joining them as a matter of course. Estrella demanded explanations as she went along. Their progress was leisurely. The blindfolded pump mule interested her.

“And he goes round and round that way all day without stopping, thinking he’s really getting somewhere!” she marvelled. “I think that’s a shame! Poor old fellow, to get fooled that way!”

“It is some foolish,” said Brent Palmer, “but he ain’t any worse off than a cow-pony that hikes out twenty mile and then twenty back.”

“No, I suppose not,” admitted Estrella.

“And we got to have water, you know,” added Senor Johnson.

Brent rode up the sorrel bareback. The pretty animal, gentle as a kitten, nevertheless planted his forefeet strongly and snorted at Estrella.