The Treasure Trail. Marah Ellis Ryan

       And I don’t care a damn!

      He varied this musical gem occasionally by whistling the air as he punched holes and wove the rawhide thongs in and out through the spliced leather.

      Once he halted in the midst of a strain and lifted his head, listening. Something like an echo of his own notes sounded very close, a mere shadow of a whistle.

      Directly over his head was a window, unglazed and wooden barred. A fat brown olla, dripping moisture, almost filled the deep window sill, but the interior was all in shadow. Its one door was closed. The Vijil family was scattered around in the open, most of them under the ramada, and after a frowning moment of mystification the young fellow resumed his task, but in silence.

      Then, after a still minute, more than the whisper of a whistle came to him –– the subdued sweet call of a meadow lark. It was so sweet it might have been mate to any he had heard on the range that morning.

      Only an instant he hesitated, then with equal care he gave the duplicate call, and held his breath to listen –– not a sound came back.

      “We’ve gone loco, Pardner,” he observed to the smutty-faced roan moving near him. “That jolt from the bay outlaw this morning has jingled my brain pans –– we don’t hear birds call us –– we only think we do.”

      If he had even looked at Pardner he might have been given a sign, for the roan had lifted its head and was staring into the shadows back of the sweating olla.

      “Hi, you caballero!”

      The words were too clear to be mistaken, the “caballero” stared across to the only people in sight. There was Pedro Vijil sharpening an axe, while Merced, his wife, turned the creaking grindstone for him. The young olive branches of the Vijil family were having fun with a horned toad under the ramada where gourd vines twisted about an ancient grape, and red peppers hung in a gorgeous splash of color. Between that and the blue haze of the far mountains there was no sign of humanity to account for such cheery youthful Americanism as the tone suggested.

      “Hi, yourself!” he retorted, “whose ghost are you?”

      There was a giggle from the barred window of the adobe.

      “I don’t dare say because I am not respectable just now,” replied the voice. “I fell in the ditch and have nothing on but the Sunday shirt of Pedro. I am the funniest looking thing! wish I dared ride home in it to shock them all silly.”

      “Why not?” he asked, and again the girlish laugh gave him an odd thrill of comradeship.

      “A good enough reason; they’d take Pat from me, and say he wasn’t safe to ride –– but he is! My tumble was my own fault for letting them put on that fool English saddle. Never again for me!”

      “They are all right for old folks and a pacing pony,” he observed, and again he heard the bubbling laugh.

      “Well, Pat is not a pacing pony, not by a long shot; and I’m not old folks –– yet!” Then after a little silence, “Haven’t you any curiosity?”

      “I