"No, but it's cavalry," was the murmured answer. "Saw him straddling a broncho at Maricopa Wells last week. He knows how." Somewhere within the ranch a triangle began to jangle. "_Quim-a-do!_" shrilled little Pete, and three or four lazy, drowsing forms began slowly to get to their feet and to shuffle away toward the doorless aperture in the adobe wall, the entrance to the dining-room of the stage and ranch people. Two men lingered, the two who were speculating as to the military connections of the young officer. One of them, after a quiet glance about the neighborhood, strolled out toward the stage, hands deep in the pockets of his wide trousers. There he seemed casually to repeat his leisurely survey of the surroundings, then he lounged back. "No go," said he, in low tones, "both of 'em there yet. Young feller changing his dress. Their dinner's ready though. The colonel's writing." Presently Sancho, grave and deliberate as became his race, emerged from the shadows of the bar and came close before he spoke. "He goes to ride--that youth. Know you whither? And he has no horse." And, as though to confirm this statement, with his quick, elastic step, Loring came forth to the side gate, dumped his valise into the stage, turned and looked keenly over the group, then as quickly approached them. He had discarded his linen coat and trousers in favor of a pair of brown cord breeches with Hualpai leggings and light spurs. A broad belt with knife and revolver was buckled to his waist. A silk handkerchief was loosely knotted at his throat. A light-colored felt hat was pulled down to his eyebrows, and dust-colored gantlets were drawn upon his hands. "Sancho," said he, "have that roan of yours saddled in ten minutes. How much if I keep him a week?" "Everything in my house is at the service of the Senor Capitan," began Sancho grandiloquently, "but as to that horse----" "No other will do. How much a week? though I may keep him only a day." "Senor, he is the horse of my brother, and my brother is not here. If harm should come----" "Full value will be paid. Here!" and a glittering gold piece, a double eagle, flashed in the sun. "Waste no talk now. Take this and saddle him." Slowly, gingerly, with thumb and finger tips the ranchman plucked the coin from the open and extended palm, then bowed with the same native grace and gravity. "Come, Loring," growled the colonel impatiently, "dinner," and Sancho caught the name. "The Senor Loreeng--will not ride him hard--or far? It is to the camp of the major he goes?" But, turning on his heel, not another word would Loring say. Ten minutes later, his hunger appeased with bacon, _frijoles_ and chocolate, he mounted and rode quietly away eastward until Sancho's ranch was two miles behind, then gave the roan both rein and spur and sped like the wind up the Gila, two of Sancho's oldest customers vainly lashing on his trail. CHAPTER III.