“I am taking it back where it came from,” Steven said, simply. Don José gazed at him with a deep, searching look, and the two clasped hands after the manner of the country, left hands upon the other’s arm. Steven thought, “Perhaps they think it was I who stabbed the fraile.” But neither would have told whatever he thought or whoever had done the deed. Steven came after many weeks to the ford above Albuquerque. “I will not cross here,” he thought, “but above, nearest the Sandia Mountains.” To the north he could faintly see the tips of the snow-capped peaks that towered above Santa Fe. It was late winter and the giant cottonwoods were turned to copper and polished brass. The nights were cold. Steven was weary of travel alone; he longed once more to be with friends. Adventuring was hard business and he was glad that he was not a trapper, yet the wilderness had forged a claim that he could never forget, upon him, too, a claim that he could never shake off. He rode along the river bank, thinking of these things, and before he realized it came upon a large hacienda before which lay a garden of at least two _varas_, surrounded by a stout wall, well fortified, and with many outbuildings behind. He was surprised to see so expansive a dwelling here, for there were fewer _ricos_ near the town named after the famous Spanish duke than there were at Santa Fe. By rising in his stirrups he could peer over the wall, and in the garden he saw a boy playing, shooting at a target with bow and arrows. It was Doren Bragdon! Steven hallooed, and in a few moments the heavy gate was opened and he rode through to alight before Don Tiburcio and the Señora Garcia. This was an occasion of great rejoicing. The hacienda was set aflutter with preparations of an honored guest. Don Tiburcio apologized for the meanness of his furnishings; he had been able to procure little there in the territory fit to set up an establishment with. They had built on to an already old and seasoned house, and were still building; Don Tiburcio had already sent a messenger to Mexico for silver and robes and furniture and brocade and the finest tapestries to be procured in the capital. As soon as he and Hope had been married they had come down here. They wished to stay in New Mexico so that Hope would be near to some Americanos. Hope smiled shyly at Steven. She wore a sapphire that would ransom a General of Mexico; her gown was ridiculously rich to be trailing about in the dust. “But Don Tiburcio will not let me wear gingham,” she protested, not pridefully, but in real distress. “Even when I am working I must be dressed in fine clothes.” Don Tiburcio took Steven to a workroom where he had a cabinet-maker carving furniture, and he had engaged an Indian silversmith who was melting up silver to make plates and forks and spoons and other service worthy of his wife’s table.