Another sound of someone slipping on the wet ground, and the caballero whirled around and looked up the slope. But there was silence, and he did not hear the sound again. Once more he faced the fire, and presently the sound of footsteps came to him, and this time he did not turn. The steps stopped, retreated, and he felt sure that he heard a bit of laughter carried to him on the rushing wind. He waited an instant, then walked slowly up the slope toward his horse. He came upon another package. Hurrying back to the fire, he opened it. There was a roast leg of mutton, a bottle of wine, cold cakes of wheat-paste, a tiny package of salt, a jar of honey! With the roast leg of mutton in his hands he did not stop to wonder as to the good samaritan who had left the package there. He ate until the last of the roast had been devoured; drank deeply of the invigorating wine; stored honey and cakes and salt away in his cloak, and then he sat before the fire thinking the world considerably better than it had been an hour before. Now and then he chuckled, and his eyes were sparkling. For, when he had gone to pick up the second package, he had carried a brand from the fire to light his way, and he had seen footprints in the soft clay. They had not been made by Señora Vallejo, for he had noticed three evenings before down by the creek that the feet of Señora Vallejo were not of the daintiest. Neither had they been made by some Indian woman from one of the huts, since those women always wore moccasins. They had been made by two tiny shoes with fashionable heels, such as might have been imported from Mexico for the daughter of a wealthy rancho owner! CHAPTER VI VISITORS The fire died down for lack of fuel, until only a small bed of coals remained to glow like a great red eye in the black night. There was no moon. The caballero, warm and dry, had spread his cloak on the ground and was stretched upon it, half asleep, listening to the rushing of the creek and the screeching of the wind that swept up the valley from the sea. He sensed the presence of human beings near him, and without changing his position on the cloak he let his right hand slip slowly along his side until it gripped the butt of his pistol. And there he remained, trying to pierce the black night with his eyes, ears strained to catch the slightest sound. His horse snorted in sudden fear; the caballero gripped the pistol tighter, half minded to spring to his feet, yet declining to do so for fear it might be some prowling neophyte attempting to frighten him and carry a tale back to the huts in the plaza of how the caballero had been stricken with fear in the night. “_Señor!_” The warning hiss seemed to come from a great distance, borne on the raging wind. He knew it was an Indian who spoke; and the inflection of the single word expressed that the speaker was merely trying to attract his attention, not threatening, not warning of some imminent peril.