Breakfast was already on the table when she opened the dining-room door. Hot bread, yellow corn meal and salt pork, stewed dried peaches and coffee. At Raquel’s place was a little pitcher of cream. “It’s from Ruth,” explained Georgie proudly. “I’m goin’ to let her sleep in the shed off the summer kitchen from now on. It’s gettin’ too cold for her.” “You certainly are not,” said Raquel with a grin. “From there it would be just a step into the kitchen. You’ll be wanting to put Old Whitey into the patio next.” Georgie clanked out in disgust, his leather chaps concealing the fact that as yet his legs were unbowed in the manner befitting a real cowman. At his heels rattled a murderous-looking pair of spurs, which were in reality so blunt that at best they could only massage Old Whitey’s hide. In fact the spurs were just a sort of friendly hint to Whitey as between friends. And being a faithful cowhorse of many years’ standing, Whitey always tried to oblige when Georgie gave the signal, and would break into a run. Perhaps the run lasted only a few steps before subsiding into an apologetic trot. But at a scratch of the spur Whitey was off again. “Georgie, you’re to ride with Angel over to the second windmill and see if everything’s all right. Mom, why hasn’t Elena been up to the house? I was down there yesterday and no one was at home. I’m going down there right now. I want to see Pancho.” Elena Esquibal, Pancho’s wife, had lived at Los Ranchos ever since she was a girl. Somewhere there was a strain of proud Spanish blood, and her father had owned his own rancho. He had been a friend of Old Man Daniels, and when at his death it was found that the rancho, on which Dad had already loaned him money, was lost on a mortgage, Dad brought the girl back and gave her a home. “I don’t know what’s come over Elena,” said Mom. “She’s sort of queer these days. But the little girls’re sweet little old things, and Panchito’s too young to be mean yet. “I never did take much to Pancho Esquibal, though he’s got real purty manners,” added Mom, “and it was sort of a pity that Elena couldn’t have kept that rancho of her father’s; but it wasn’t your father’s fault that the bank had to take it over for his debts. Seems like Esquibal didn’t seem to sense that; he thinks Dad was to blame some way. They think influence should do anything.” “Well, I’m going down there now, Mom; I want to go over some things with Pancho.” The Esquibal _casita_, a flat-roofed adobe house, nestled down at the foot of a hill below the corral, and faced the Alamos, the cottonwood grove. There seemed to be no one at home, but back of the house Raquel found Panchito asleep in the sun, his back to some empty oil cans. As she stood looking at him Panchito awoke, rubbed his eyes, and stood up, grinning shyly. His papa and mamma had gone in the wagon over to visit a sick _tio_ [uncle]. They would be back tomorrow, tonight maybe. “_Si Señorita._”