“Ah!” he breathed an instant later.
The figure of a horse and rider abruptly appeared above the crest of the hill, slowly rising higher and higher until both in full view were silhouetted in bold relief against the sky. The two, almost giant specimens of their species, formed a magnificent picture as the glow of the early morning sun fell across their figures. Now having come to a halt, they suggested in their motionless state rather a great equestrian statue than living, breathing creatures.
One swift, comprehensive glance had shown Tom Clifton. An elderly, gray-bearded, patriarchal-looking man he was, every line in his bronzed face telling of his nationality.
“A Mexican!” muttered Tom. Then mastering himself he exclaimed in even tones:
“Good-morning, sir!”
He was vaguely conscious of the fact that the other appeared to be studying him with considerably more interest and attention than a chance meeting between two strangers would seem to warrant. Another thing, too, impressed itself upon his mind. This man had evidently seen him approaching from a considerable distance, for he exhibited no signs of surprise.
“Buenas dias, señor,” came the greeting.
The Mexican spoke in a kindly, friendly tone, and Tom’s disturbing thoughts immediately fled.
“Good-morning,” he said again. Then without further hesitation he flipped his reins, and the mustang’s sharp hoofs were once more digging into the hard, stony ground.
Riding up by the stranger’s side he addressed him in English only to see him shake his head uncomprehendingly. The situation, however, was saved from any embarrassing features by the Mexican’s sense of humor. He laughed heartily and extended his hand, which Tom smilingly shook.