“The ore from Number Three is running six per cent these days,” he exclaimed, as he tossed his note-book into the office. Together they watched the trail leading out from the camp, down which rode little groups of horsemen, lounging in the saddle. The smoke from their cigarettes trailed thinly blue behind them. “There goes domesticity for you, Steve!” said Duncan. He pointed to a family group riding by. Old Tom Jenkins, the smelter boss, with his wife, was starting for a trip to the river. Three children were strung in various attitudes across their saddles. “It seems as if every one were going for a ride,” commented Stephen. “Shall we fall in line with the popular amusement?” “I haven’t got a horse,” answered Duncan, “and all the company _caballos_ will be out to-day. I heard old Hodges down at the corral after lunch cursing like a pirate at the amount of saddling that he had to do. Right in the midst of his growling, Miss Cameron came along, and wanted a horse. The old man pretty nearly fell over himself trying to accommodate her. There’s something about her that seems to affect people that way. Quite a convenient trait, I should think!” Stephen agreed silently, and in his mind added considerably more, then strode off to the corral for his pony. As he slung the saddle across his horse’s back and cinched the girth, he fumbled a little, for his mind was not upon the task, but upon a certain curl, which defying combs or hairpins, waved capriciously at the turn of a girl’s neck. Horses, however, have little sympathy with sentiment, and while Loring tugged absent-mindedly at the straps, the little beast puffed and squealed, trying to arrange for a comfortable space between his round, gray belly and the girth. Stephen, placing his left hand on the head-piece, and his right on the pommel, swung himself into the saddle, in spite of the pony’s antics. Soon he was loping out of camp, and down towards the river. The clear sunshine struck his neck beneath his broad hat; the alkali dust tasted smoky and almost invigorating. As he left the camp behind him, he laughed and sang softly to himself, beating with his unspurred heel the time of his song against his pony’s ribs. He blessed the extravagance which had led him to invest half a month’s pay in “_Muy Bueno_,” as the horse was christened to indicate the owner’s assurance that he was “very fine.” Leaning forward, Loring playfully pulled “_Muy Bueno’s_” ears. The pony shook its head in annoyance. This was no holiday for him. After a short distance the ground began to rise, and the pony, with lowered head, buckled to his task, resolutely attacking the trail which zig-zagged up the steep mountainside.