it seemed unlikely that he had taken French leave.  When shearing was in full swing, a couple of freighters came for a load of wood.  After some talk, they drove off to camp, a little way up the creek, proposing to return in the morning.  About sunset they were seen slowly approaching the shearing-shed, It seemed that in watering their horses they had seen a man in the creek.  The small freighter imparted this information in a low voice, with some hesitation and a deprecatory half-smile.  The young and large freighter stood aloof, with a half-smile too, but he had evidently found the sensation disagreeably strong.  This, it seemed certain, must be the lost Juan Lucio.  The next day, which was Sunday, the ranchmen and a county officer proceeded toward the scene of the discovery.  The shearers heard of the affair, and paused in the arrangement of a horse-race.  They went in a body to the store and purchased candles, and then the motley cavalry coursed over the prairie after the rest.  They lifted Juan Lucio from the river and bore him to a live-oak tree, where the coroner and his jurymen debated his situation.  They inclined to think that he had come to his death by drowning.  Then the Mexicans dug a grave for him, and stood a moment round it with their candles lighted; each lifted a handful of earth and tossed it in.  Finally, they covered the prairie-grave with brush to protect it from the coyotes, and rode slowly home in twos and threes.  About a month after, a young Mexican rode into the ranch:  he had ridden from San Anton, two hundred miles away, to put a board cross above his father’s grave, marked for him by the store-keeper, “Juan Lucio, May, 1884.”

The herders on the ranch were all Mexicans, and throughout the county it was generally so.  An old Scotchman who paused one moment to smoke a pipe beneath the porch was a solitary instance to the contrary.  He was a most markedly benevolent-looking old man, and had about him that copious halo of hair with which benevolence seems to delight to surround itself.  He had also about him the halo of American humor, having just been up to answer a charge of murder, in another county, of which he was extravagantly innocent.  He carried a crook, as seemed fitting, and had with him two sheep-dogs, one of which the kindly man assured us he had frequently cured of a recurrent disease by cutting off pieces of its tail.  This sacrificial part having been pretty well used up, the beast’s situation in view of another attack was very ticklish.  And it had, in fact, the air of occupying the anxious-seat.  The Mexican, it may be added, uses neither dog nor crook.  He may have a cur or pillone to share his solitude, but its function is purely social:  for catching sheep there is his lariat.  He is measurably faithful and trustworthy, a careful observer of his flock, and quick to appreciate their troubles.  Of course he loses sheep semi-occasionally, causing those long sheep-hunting rides among the hills which the ranchman curses and the visitor enjoys; and occasionally in winter on cold nights he is overpowered by the temptation to visit a friend, the whole flock gets astray, and, fearing consequences, Juan, not stopping to fold his tent like the Arab, silently steals away.