"I take a letter to Don Rafael; his wife is sick."
"Where?"
"At San Joaquin ranch, señor. Adios!"
He had his foot in the stirrup, when the sheriff laid his hand on his arm.
"Wait a bit," he said, quietly. "I think it is said that a picnic is given to-day by Señora Downing for Doña Raquel Arteaga who is visiting in Los Angeles. How can she be at the same time at the San Joaquin ranch?"
"I know not anything of the picnic, señor, but I know a woman rode her horse into the ranch at dark last night, and they say it is Doña Raquel Arteaga; and she has a fever, and screams and laughs all night in the room of Doña Ana. I know, for I am called after I am asleep, to get wood for a fire. No one sleeps, and outside the window I hear all what she screams, and it is enough to freeze the blood,—all of altars where blood is, and a ring that she cries for; and I am glad to get away and ride for Rafael Arteaga."
"Rather thin, isn't it, all of that story?" remarked one of the ranchmen. "Bryton, when we asked you to join us didn't you stop to send word to the Downings that you couldn't attend their little celebration in the hills?"
"Yes."
Bryton had turned from the others and was rolling a cigarro. He replied without looking up from his task.
"And it was given in honor of Doña Raquel Arteaga and the bishop?"