orthodox person one ordinarily visualizes in a Spanish-Irish Catholic,
but he was deeply religious, his religious impulse taking quite
naturally a much more practical form and one most pleasing to himself
and his neighbors, in that it impelled him to be brave and kind and
hopeful, a gentleman in all that the word implies. He valued far more
than he did the promise of a mansion in the skies a certain
tranquillity of spirit which comes of conscious virtue.

When he rose from his knees he had a feeling that God had not lost
track of him and that, despite a long list of debit entries, a
celestial accountant had, at some period in Don Mike's life, posted a
considerable sum to his credit in the Book of Things. "That credit may
just balance the account," he reflected, "although it is quite probable
I am still working in the red ink. Well--I've asked Him for the
privilege of overdrawing my account . . . we shall see what we shall
see."

At daylight he awakened suddenly and found himself quite mysteriously
the possessor of a trend of reasoning that automatically forced him to
sit up in bed.

Fifteen minutes later, mounted on Panchito, he was cantering up the San
Gregorio, and just as the cook at Bill Conway's camp at Agua Caliente
Basin came to the door of the mess hall and yelled: "Come an' git it or
I'll throw it out," Panchito slid down the gravel cut-bank into camp.

"Where is Mr. Conway?" he demanded of the cook,

The latter jerked a greasy thumb toward the interior of the mess hall,
so, leaving Panchito "tied to the breeze," Don Mike dismounted and