had been signed in duplicate, Mr. Orahood smilingly admitted that ours were the best beeves he had bought that spring.  “I knew it,” said Uncle Lance; “you don’t suppose I’ve been ranching in this valley over forty years without knowing a fat steer when I see one.  Tom, send a muchacho after a bundle of mint.  Wayne, you haven’t got a lick of sense in riding—­I’m as tired as a dog.”

The buyer returned to Shepherd’s the next morning.  The horse breaking was almost completed, except allotting them into remudas, assigning bell mares, and putting each band under herd for a week or ten days.  The weather was fairing off, relieving the strain of riding the range, and the ranch once more relaxed into its languid existence.  By a peculiar coincidence, Easter Sunday occurred on April the 13th that year, it being also the sixty-sixth birthday of the ranchero.  Miss Jean usually gave a little home dinner on her brother’s birthday, and had planned one for this occasion, which was but a few days distant.  In the mail which had been sent for on Saturday before Easter, a letter had come from John Cotton to his employer, saying he would start home in a few days, and wanted Father Norquin sent for, as the wedding would take place on the nineteenth of the month.  He also mentioned the fact that Theodore expected to spend a day or two with the Booths returning, but he would ride directly down to the Vaux ranch, and possibly the two would reach home about the same time.

I doubt if Uncle Lance ever enjoyed a happier birthday than this one.  There was every reason why he should enjoy it.  For a man of his age, his years rested lightly.  The ranch had never been more prosperous.  Even the drouth of the year before had not proved an ill wind; for the damage then sustained had been made up by conditions resulting in one of the largest sales of cattle in the history of the ranch.  A chapel and three new cottages had been built without loss of time and at very little expense.  A number of children had been born to the soil, while the natives were as loyal to their master as subjects in the days of feudalism.  There was but one thing lacking to fill the cup to overflowing—­the ranchero was childless.  Possessed with a love of the land so deep as to be almost his religion, he felt the need of an heir.

“Birthdays to a man of my years,” said Uncle Lance, over Easter dinner, “are food for reflection.  When one nears the limit of his allotted days, and looks back over his career, there is little that satisfies.  Financial success is a poor equivalent for other things.  But here I am preaching when I ought to be rejoicing.  Some one get John’s letter and read it again.  Let’s see, the nineteenth falls on Saturday.  Lucky day for Las Palomas!  Well, we’ll have the padre here, and if he says barbecue a beef, down goes the fattest one on the ranch.  This is the year in which we expect to press our luck.  I begin to feel it in my old bones that the turning-point has come.  When Father Norquin arrives, I think I’ll have him preach us a sermon on the evils of single life.  But then it’s hardly necessary, for most of you boys have got your eye on some girl right now.  Well, hasten the day, every rascal of you, and you’ll find a cottage ready at a month’s notice.”