"Here's Mugs to keep you company," said Daphne, suddenly opening the door and unceremoniously dumping down a fluffy ball that at once trundled itself in the Colonel's direction. "I won't be but a few minutes."
The tiny fat puppy came to a halt and fixed the Colonel with the blue eyes of extreme youth. The Colonel reached down and gathered him in. Immediately he snuggled down with a sleepy grunt of content.
It was nine years ago, just about this time of year. The Colonel, staring out the window across the magnificent acres of Corona del Monte, remembered every detail. Manuelo had come riding in one noon to announce that a man was camping at the mouth of Ramon Cañon. There was nothing unusual in this; but after dinner, the Colonel, having nothing better to do, rode around that way to see what the man was up to. He found a tent under the oaks, a pair of horses grazing in the bottom, and a stranger seated on the wagon pole mending harness. He was tall, gaunt, hollow-eyed, dressed in a flannel shirt and overalls. Both the latter articles were clean. High on his cheeks burned two round red spots. The Colonel knew the type—a "lunger." The man looked up from under his heavy brows, but made no move.
"Good afternoon," the Colonel greeted cheerfully.
The man merely nodded.
"You have selected a good place to camp. You will find spring water up that side about forty rods."
"I have found it," said the man grudgingly. His voice, unexpectedly, was cultivated.
"I hope you will stay just as long as you feel like doing so," pursued the Colonel, "and make yourself quite at home."
The man for the first time looked directly at him.
"I intend to do so," said he. "I have filed on this hundred and sixty."
"Filed?"
"Yes, filed—taken it up—homesteaded it."
"This is not Government land. It is part of my rancho."
"That is where you are wrong," stated the newcomer, vigorously. "Look up your titles."
