“A man named Conway.”

“Old Bill Conway, of Santa Barbara?”

“The same, I believe,” Parker replied, without interest.

“Great old chap, Bill!  One of my father’s best friends, although he was twenty years younger than dad.  He must feel at home on the Rancho Palomar.”

Mrs. Parker could not refrain from asking why.

“Well, ever since Bill Conway was big enough to throw a leg over a horse and hold a gun to his shoulder, he’s been shooting deer and quail and coursing coyotes on this ranch.  Whenever he felt the down-hill drag, he invited himself up to visit us.  Hello!  Why, I believe the old horse-thief is down there now; at least that’s his automobile.  I’d know that ruin anywhere.  He bought it in 1906, and swears he’s going to wear it out if it takes a lifetime.  Let’s go down and see what they’re up to there.  Come on, folks!” And, without waiting to see whether or not he was followed, he urged the pinto over the crest and rode down the hillside at top speed, whooping like a wild Indian to attract the attention of Bill Conway.  In a shower of weeds and gravel the pinto slid on his hind quarters down over the cut-bank where the grading operations had bitten into the hillside, and landed with a grunt among the teams and scrapers.

“Bill Conway!  Front and center!” yelled the master of Palomar.

“Here!  What’s the row?” a man shouted, and, from a temporary shack office a hundred yards away, a man stepped out.

“What do you mean by cutting into my dam-site without my permission?” Farrel yelled and drove straight at the contractor.  “Hey, there, old settler!  Mike Farrel, alive and kicking!” He left the saddle while the pinto was still at a gallop, landed on his feet in front of Bill Conway and took that astounded old disciple of dump-wagon and scraper in a bearlike embrace.

“Miguel!  You young scoundrel!” Conway yelled, and forthwith he beat Farrel between the shoulder-blades with a horny old fist and cursed him lovingly.

“Cut out the profanity, Mr. Conway,” Don Mike warned him.  “Some ladies are about due on the job.”

“When’d you light in the Palomar, boy?  Gimme your hand.  What the—­say, ain’t it a pity the old man couldn’t have lasted until you got back?  Ain’t it, now, son?”

“A very great pity, Mr. Conway.  I got home last night.”

“Boy, I’m glad to see you.  Say, you ran into surprises, didn’t you?” he added, lowering his voice confidentially.

“Rather.  But, then, so did the other fellow.  In fact, sir, a very pleasant time was had by all.  By the way, I hope you’re not deluding yourself with the belief that I’m going to pay you for building this dam.”

“By Judas priest,” the alert old contractor roared, “you certainly do file a bill of complications!  I’ll have to see Parker about this right away—­why, here he is now.”

The Parkers had followed more decorously than had Farrel; nevertheless, they had arrived in more or less of a hurry.  John Parker rode directly to Conway and Farrel.