A very short while sufficed for Stephen to find four volunteers to accompany them, and within an hour the little party was riding out of the town to the southward, where lay the ranch and the threatened pass. The country was desolation itself, rocky ground covered with layers of dust and sand. All was gray in color. The little clusters of sage-brush, all dried and lifeless in the heat, made no change in the gray hue. The road was merely a track across the desert, beaten by chance horsemen or cattle. Along this the horses scuffled, sending up clouds of alkali dust into the air for the benefit of the riders who were behind.
Stephen rode beside Señor Hernandez, speaking only in short sentences, to answer or ask some question. The leather of the saddles, beneath the sun, was burning hot.
After four hours of riding, just as the sun was beginning to drop behind the foothills, they saw before them in the desert a large patch of green, as vivid as if painted upon the ground, fresh and succulent, amidst the desolation of the plain.
“My alfalfa crop!” exclaimed the Señor, pointing with pride. “We have irrigated. Much water. Big crop. He aqui la casa—there, behind the alfalfa.”
Stephen saw rise, as if by magic, a long one-story structure of adobe, so much the color of the earth as to have been till now almost indistinguishable. Beside the house was a large brush corral. So perfectly was all blended with the landscape, that not until they were very near did Loring appreciate the great size of the building.
At the corral they dismounted and unsaddled.
“Better carry the saddles up to the house!” said Loring to the men, who had hung them over the corral bars. So, carrying their guns and saddles, they all walked up to the house.
Here they were received by the ranchman’s wife, a striking Spanish beauty.
“It is Señora Hernandez,” said the Mexican, with justifiable pride. The Señora showed the men the rooms where they were to sleep. Stephen, as commander, was given the largest room.