All day long the violin squeaked, the clattering feet resounded on the barn floor, the kegs were emptied into throats, and races of all kinds--fat men's races, women's races, old men's races--followed each other. At last, the great event was called--Malden's mare against Pete's noted plunger. The Vaqueros cleared the way, a pistol shot in the distance announced they had started, a cloud of dust that they were coming. It was not a trot; it was a neck-and-neck run, such as Job had taken hundreds of times over the great pasture lot on Pine Tree Ranch. He was perfectly at home. With arms clasped around her neck, he urged Bess on; he sang, he coaxed, he cheered her. Bess knew that voice, and, catching the passion of the hour, fairly flew. Faster and faster she went, but faster and faster came Pete at her heels--now Job felt the hot breath of the other horse on his cheek--now they fell back--now they were close behind him. They were near the line--but a hundred paces and the old oak would be passed. Pete was desperate; the fire of anger was in his eyes. Job heard one of Pete's excited friends shout, "Throw him, Pete!" The thought of awful danger flew through Job's mind: The angry man would do it--Bess must go faster. She was white with foam now, but go she must. He hugged her closer; he sang--how out of place the piece seemed! 'Twas the song, though, that always roused her, so he sang it, as so often be had sung it in the great oak pasture of the home ranch--"Palms of victory, crowns of glory I shall wear,"--and, singing it, dashed across the line the victor, while the mob yelled and Dan hugged Bess and the waiter offered a free treat to the whole crowd. Job Malden had won the race, the gold nugget was his, but oh, how much he had lost! CHAPTER IV. JANE. "Wait till the clouds roll by, Jennie, Wait till the clouds roll by." It was the clear, high voice of a rosy-cheeked, black-eyed, short-skirted, barefooted maiden that sang, who, with her long black tresses blowing in the afternoon breeze, and a pail on her arm, was gayly skipping down the narrow road that separated the fence of Pine Tree Ranch from the endless forest that stretched away towards the big trees and Yosemite. "'Wait till the clouds'--gracious sakes, boy! what did you scare me for?" Jane Reed cried, as out of the dark woods, around a sugar pine, a tall, tanned lad strode, with gun over his shoulder, and a long-eared dog at his heels. "Oh, just for ducks!" said Job Malden, who, after a celebration of his sixteenth birthday, was returning from one of his favorite quail hunts with "Shot," his only playmate on Pine Tree Ranch. "Where did you get those shoes, sissy?" said the boy, looking at her bare, bronzed feet. "From the Lord," quietly answered the girl. "Humph!" said Job with a sneer, "the only lord I know is the one of Pine Tree Mountain, and the one that is to be--that's myself--and I'm mighty sure he or I never made such looking things."