"My real name is Florence Douglas. I am of Scotch descent, as you will judge. Can you remember the name?"
"I can, Cousin Ida-I mean Cousin Florence," said Ben.
"Then let Ida Sinclair be forgotten. Richard—Mr. Dewey-would not know me by that name."
"I tell you, Ben, that gal's a trump!" said Jake Bradley enthusiastically, when they were by themselves; "and so I'll tell Dick Dewey when I see him."
"She's been a kind friend to me, Jake. I hope we can find Mr. Dewey for her."
"We'll find him if he's in California," answered Jake.
CHAPTER XI. — THE CANON HOTEL.
Late in the afternoon of the third day subsequent a man and a boy might have been seen riding slowly through a rocky canon probably eighty miles west from San Francisco. Both were mounted on the small native horses of California, generally called mustangs. These animals possess a strength disproportioned to their size, and show great endurance. At times they have a playful habit of bucking, not quite agreeable to an inexperienced horseman.