Early in the afternoon of the fourth day after the red mustang and the regular-army black brought Cal home to Santa Lucia, the ranch wore a very peaceful appearance. No cavalry were camped near it. There was not now any American flag floating from the staff on the roof of the hacienda, and there was not wind enough to have made one float if it had been there.

No cattle were grazing within sight of anybody standing at the stockade gate. That was closed and barred in an unusually inhospitable manner, and no wayfarer could ride in without first explaining himself. There was reason in it, for Santa Lucia now contained only one man to strengthen the brave female garrison which had held it against the intended surprise-party of Kah-go-mish. More men would be there at sunset, on the return of the herders, and no Indians were believed to be within a very long distance.

A wide awning had been stretched out from the veranda, and there were two or three chairs under the awning, but they were empty.

Norah McLory and a couple of the Mexican women were busy with some tubs in the courtyard. The windows looking into it were not narrow slits like those outside. They were wide enough, had swinging sashes in them, and they gave the old adobe less the appearance of being either a fort or a prison. Most of them were curtained, and the curtains of a pair opposite the open side of the square were very handsome. Just beyond one of these curtains stood Mrs. Evans, with her arms around her daughter. If anything were troubling Vic's mind, the face she was looking into must have had comfort in it. Mrs. Evans was one of those women who are remarkable, and have no need of proving it to make people believe it. She was of medium height and not at all robust in appearance, although in excellent health. There was hardly a tinge of gray in her auburn hair, her cheeks were smooth, her brown eyes were bright and pleasant, and her voice was full and musical. Those who had heard it once wished to hear it again, even if they wondered what there was in it that made them go and do just as she told them. It was a grand thing for a young cowboy, like Cal Evans, to have such a mother away out there upon the plains, and was equally good for Vic, especially at such a time as had now come.

The room itself was as nearly like a large parlor in an Eastern mansion as such a room in such a building could be made. Colonel Evans had refused to count up how many head of cattle the furniture had cost him, including the piano and the wagoning of it from Santa FÉ.

Mrs. Evans had not stopped there, for her china and other elegances enabled her to set a well-furnished table, and her kitchen garden in one corner of the stockade, with her hen-coops, provided something better than the beef and bacon and corn-bread supplied to hungry people at most New Mexican ranches.

More than one Indian chief to whom Mrs. Evans had given a dinner had declared it "good medicine," not understanding that his own race was passing away because the chickens and the potato-patches were coming.

Army-men, officers and soldiers, had ridden away from Santa Lucia, remarking of Cal's mother: "Very uncommon woman. But how did she get those things to grow 'way down here?"

Mexican herders in the colonel's employ had also discussed the matter, and had decided that no melon or bean or hill of corn or other vegetable dared refuse to grow after getting orders from the "SeÑora."

Perhaps the most remarkable thing, after all, was the fact that such a lady, with all her refinement and cultivation, should say that she preferred a ranch life at Santa Lucia to any other kind of life anywhere.

She was saying so now to Victoria. Vic would have been a smaller pattern of her mother, but for a tinge of red in her hair and something saucy about her nose and mouth. That is, on ordinary occasions, but not just now, for she was looking blue enough.

"Mother," she said, "father never gets hurt, but Cal is so young. The Indians, mother, and there may be fighting. I almost hate this country. I'd rather be where no savages can come."

"They will never come, Vic."

"They did come, this time! I saw them from the roof. Some of them come along here every now and then.""Peaceably, my dear. It's a wonder to me that they touched anything of ours. If everybody had dealt with them as your father has there would not be any fighting."

"He went away angry enough," said Vic.

"Not angry enough to hurt any Indian without necessity. If there should be any fighting—"

"Seems to me I can't think he could kill anybody, or be killed; but Cal is so young!"

"Victoria," said her mother, almost laughing, "Cal is a smaller mark than your father, and not half so likely to get hit. I hope they will bring the horses back with them."

"You are a wonderful woman, mother. Were you ever really afraid of anything?"

Mrs. Evans thought for a moment, and then replied, "Yes, Vic, the other day. I was afraid we'd not get our soldier scarecrows ready before the Apaches came. Then, too, they might have met your father. I thought of that, but I wasn't really afraid that they had. I think I was made to live here."

That was the truth of the matter, and she soon convinced Victoria that the time to be nervous had not yet arrived. It was true that Colonel Evans and Cal and a dozen cowboys had gone with Captain Moore and the cavalry to trail the thieving Mescaleros and bring back the horses, but the Indians had three days the start, and were not likely to be caught up with at once.

"There may not be any fighting, even then," said Mrs. Evans; but Victoria did not find any use for her piano that day.