I held in the black and rode off in a walk. This was the first clean knock-out I had ever met. Heretofore I had been egotistical enough to hold my head rather high, but this morning it drooped. Wolf seemed to notice it, and after the first mile dropped into an easy volunteer walk. I never noticed the passing of time until we reached the river, and the black stopped to drink. Here I unsaddled for several hours; then went on again in no cheerful mood. Before I came within sight of Las Palomas near evening, my horse turned his head and nickered, and in a few minutes Uncle Lance and June Deweese galloped up and overtook me. I had figured out several very plausible versions of my adventure, but this sudden meeting threw me off my guard—and Lance Lovelace was a hard man to tell an undetected, white-faced lie. I put on a bold front, but his salutation penetrated it at a glance. “What’s the matter, Tom; any of your folks dead?” “No.” “Sick?” “No.” “Girl gone back on you?” “I don’t think.” “It’s the old woman, then?” “How do you know?” “Because I know that old dame. I used to go over there occasionally when old man Donald was living, but the old lady—excuse me! I ought to have posted you, Tom, but I don’t suppose it would have done any good. Brought your fiddle with you, I see. That’s good. I expect the old lady read my title clear to you.” My brain must have been under a haze, for I repeated every charge she had made against him, not even sparing the accusation that he had remained out of the army and added to his brand by mavericking cattle. “Did she say that?” inquired Uncle Lance, laughing. “Why, the old hellion! She must have been feeling in fine fettle!” CHAPTER V A PIGEON HUNT The new year dawned on Las Palomas rich in promise of future content. Uncle Lance and I had had a long talk the evening before, and under the reasoning of the old optimist the gloom gradually lifted from my spirits. I was glad I had been so brutally blunt that evening, regarding what Mrs. McLeod had said about him; for it had a tendency to increase the rancher’s aggressiveness in my behalf. “Hell, Tom,” said the old man, as we walked from the corrals to the house, “don’t let a little thing like this disturb you. Of course she’ll four-flush and bluff you if she can, but you don’t want to pay any more attention to the old lady than if she was some _pelado_. To be sure, it would be better to have her consent, but then”—