"Buenos noches, Señor," Chappo smiled politely, his shabby sombrero in hand.
"Buenos noches, Chappo," answered Powell, whose life for several years in a South American mining camp had familiarized him with the language and the type of people found in all Latin-American sections. A fortunate mining investment during those years had awakened a love of the untrammeled outdoors, and also made it possible for him to carry on his plans for a sanitarium.
After Chappo had departed for his bunk-room, the doctor became absorbed in his book. Three hours passed, then the drowsing collie started with a muffled growl and sharply cocked ears.
"What's the matter, old chap?"
The dog leaped up ran to the door whimpering, and Powell went on the front porch. It was too dark to discern anything and no unusual sounds reached the man, but the dog, with a hysterical yelp darted from the porch into the shadows. The short, sharp barks that broke the stillness were barks of welcome such as always greeted the doctor upon his return to the ranch.
A woman's voice spoke to the dog, and Powell ran quickly in the direction the collie had taken. The way led to the Circle Cross; the voice was that of Glendon's wife.
"Be quiet, Tatters," called Powell. As the noise abated, he reached Katherine Glendon's side, and in the faint light saw that she was carrying Donnie.
"Oh, I am so glad you are home!" she exclaimed. "Donnie is hurt, I don't know how badly—but his arm is broken."
Already the doctor had reached for the child.
"Let me have him. Don't try to explain anything now."