“Oh, get back into your office, Conway, and cast up the account against me.  Figure a full day for the men and the mules, although our break came at half-past three.  I’m a contrary man, but I’m not small.  Come on, Mr. Farrel, let’s go home,” Parker suggested.

“Little birds in their nest should agree,” old Conway warned, as, with a sweep of his battered old hat to the ladies, he turned to re-enter his office.  With a nod of farewell, John Parker and his wife started riding down the draw, while Farrel turned to unloosen his saddle-girth and adjust the heavy stock-saddle on the pinto’s back.  While he was thus engaged, Kay rode up to the door of Conway’s rough little office, bent down from Panchito, and peered in.

“Bill Conway!” she called softly.

Bill Conway came to the door.

“What’s the big idea, Miss Parker?”

The girl glanced around and saw that Don Mike was busy with the latigo, so she leaned down, drew her arm around the astounded Conway’s neck, and implanted on his ruddy, bristly cheek a kiss as soft—­so Bill Conway afterward described it—­as goose-hair.

“You build that dam,” she whispered, blushing furiously, “and see to it that it’s a good dam and will hold water for years.  I’m the reserve in this battle—­understand?  When you need money, see me, but, oh, please do not tell Don Mike about it.  I’d die of shame.”

She whirled Panchito and galloped down the draw, with Miguel Farrel loping along behind her, while, from the door of his shack of an office, old Bill Conway looked after them and thoughtfully rubbed a certain spot on his cheek.  Long after the young folks had disappeared round the base of El Palomar, he continued to gaze.  Eventually he was brought out of his reverie when a cur dog belonging to one of the teamsters on the grading gang thrust a cold muzzle into his hand.

“Purp,” murmured Mr. Conway, softly, “this isn’t a half-bad old world, even if a fellow does grow old, and finds himself hairless and childless and half broke and shackled to the worst automobile in the world, bar none.  And do you know why it isn’t such a rotten world as some folks claim?  No?  Well, I’ll tell you, purp.  It’s because it keeps a-movin’.  And do you know what keeps it a-movin’?  Purp, it’s love!”

XXI

At the base of El Palomar, Farrel and his party were met by the Parker chauffeur with the car.  Pablo had guided him out and was lounging importantly in the seat beside William.

“Don Nicolas Sandoval came to the hacienda an hour ago, Don Miguel,” he reported.  “He brought with him three others; all have gone forth to take possession of Loustalot’s sheep.”

Farrel nodded and dismounted to assist Mrs. Parker as the latter came down from her horse, somewhat stiffly.  When he turned to perform a similar office for her daughter, however, the girl smilingly shook her head.