For a man Castleton was of very small stature. He had a pink-and-white complexion, a small golden mustache, and his heavy eyelids, always drooping, made him look dull. His attire, cut to what appeared to be an exaggerated English style, attracted attention to his diminutive size. He was immaculate and fastidious. Robert Weede was a rather large florid young man, remarkable only for his good nature. Counting Boyd Harvey, a handsome, pale-faced fellow, with the careless smile of the man for whom life had been easy and pleasant, the party was complete. Dinner was a happy hour, especially for the Mexican women who served it and who could not fail to note its success. The mingling of low voices and laughter, the old, gay, superficial talk, the graciousness of a class which lived for the pleasure of things and to make time pass pleasurably for others—all took Madeline far back into the past. She did not care to return to it, but she saw that it was well she had not wholly cut herself off from her people and friends. When the party adjourned to the porch the heat had markedly decreased and the red sun was sinking over the red desert. An absence of spoken praise, a gradually deepening silence, attested to the impression on the visitors of that noble sunset. Just as the last curve of red rim vanished beyond the dim Sierra Madres and the golden lightning began to flare brighter Helen broke the silence with an exclamation. “It wants only life. Ah, there’s a horse climbing the hill! See, he’s up! He has a rider!” Madeline knew before she looked the identity of the man riding up the mesa. But she did not know until that moment how the habit of watching for him at this hour had grown upon her. He rode along the rim of the mesa and out to the point, where, against the golden background, horse and rider stood silhouetted in bold relief. “What’s he doing there? Who is he?” inquired the curious Helen. “That is Stewart, my right-hand man,” replied Madeline. “Every day when he is at the ranch he rides up there at sunset. I think he likes the ride and the scene; but he goes to take a look at the cattle in the valley.” “Is he a cowboy?” asked Helen. “Indeed yes!” replied Madeline, with a little laugh. “You will think so when Stillwell gets hold of you and begins to talk.” Madeline found it necessary to explain who Stillwell was, and what he thought of Stewart, and, while she was about it, of her own accord she added a few details of Stewart’s fame. “El Capitan. How interesting!” mused Helen. “What does he look like?” “He is superb.” Florence handed the field-glass to Helen and bade her look. “Oh, thank you!” said Helen, as she complied. “There. I see him. Indeed, he is superb. What a magnificent horse! How still he stands! Why, he seems carved in stone.” “Let me look?” said Dorothy Coombs, eagerly. Helen gave her the glass. “You can look, Dot, but that’s all. He’s mine. I saw him first.”