As Don Pablo finished his story the Senora opened the door of the kitchen where the table was already set with boiled beans, meat stewed with peppers, and thin corn cakes--the conventional _frijoles_, _carne con chili_, and _tortillas_ of the Mexicans--and some fried eggs in honor of the company. As the meal progressed the Senora maintained a discreet silence, patting out _tortillas_ and listening politely to her husband's stock of stories, for Don Pablo was lord in his own house. The big-eyed _muchacho_ sat in the corner, watching the corn cakes cook on the top of the stove and battening on the successive rations which were handed out to him. There were stories, as they ate, of the old times, of the wars and revolutions of Sonora, wherein the Senor Moreno had taken too brave a part, as his wounds and exile showed; strange tales of wonders and miracles wrought by the Indian doctors of Altar; of sacred snakes with the sign of the cross blazoned in gold on their foreheads, worshipped by the Indians with offerings of milk and tender chickens; of primitive life on the _haciendas_ of Sonora, where men served their masters for life and were rewarded at the end with a pension of beans and _carne seco_. Then as the day waned they sat at peace in the _ramada_, Moreno and Creede smoking, and Hardy watching the play of colors as the sun touched the painted crags of the Bulldog and lighted up the square summit of Red Butte across the river, throwing mysterious shadows into the black gorge which split it from crown to base. Between that high cliff and the cleft red butte flowed the Salagua, squirming through its tortuous canyon, and beyond them lay Hidden Water, the unknown, whither a single man was sent to turn back the tide of sheep. In the silence the tinkle of bells came softly from up the canyon and through the dusk Hardy saw a herd of goats, led by a long-horned ram, trailing slowly down from the mesa. They did not pause, either to rear up on their hind feet for browse or to snoop about the gate, but filed dutifully into their own corral and settled down for the night. "Your goats are well trained, Don Pablo," said Hardy, by way of conversation. "They come home of their own accord." "Ah, no," protested Moreno, rising from his chair. "It is not the goats but my goat dogs that are well trained. Come with me while I close the gate and I will show you my flock." The old gentleman walked leisurely down the trail to the corral, and at their approach Hardy saw two shaggy dogs of no breed suddenly detach themselves from the herd and spring defiantly forward. "_Quita se, quita se!"_ commanded Don Pablo, and at his voice they halted, still growling and baring their fangs at Hardy.