“Well, you’ve certainly got my curiosity aroused over these young ladies at La Siesta. How much farther do we have to go?”
“Within an hour, sir, within the hour, my lord, shall you see the lady fair. But remember,” Dick went on banteringly, “that you are not to practise any riata-throwing on Miss Merle Farnsworth.”
“I understand. But we won’t fall out over her. You may have your beautiful brunette. I have always been partial to blondes.”
“In the plural number,” grinned Dick. “But Grace Darlington will dim the light of all your previous flames. She is the most perfect blonde you have ever yet encountered.”
“You are certainly enthusiastic—for a disinterested party.”
“Well, you’ll say the same thing, Ches, my boy, when you see her.”
It was not yet four o’clock when they approached the Rancho La Siesta. The house was of a style quite unusual in California—a miniature castle that might have been planned by some European architect of renown. It stood amid noble oak trees, old and gnarled and of gigantic size, but not too numerous to hide the architectural features of the building. To the rear the trees grew more thickly till they finally merged into one great forest that covered the lower ridge of the mountain beyond. Far up, just within the timber line, could be seen the red-tiled roof of a house which Dick told his friend was the home of a Mr. Ricardo Robles. Beneath the forest, the gently undulating lands sloped away to a considerable stream that dashed down from one of the mountain canyons and debouched into the great valley.
“Whew!” exclaimed Munson admiringly, as they rode up and turned their horses over to an attendant. “Some swell architecture around here! Is this your work, Dick?”
