"I reckon that that Mr. Brooks who's down here lookin' arter mill
property, got up the dance. He's bin round town canvassin' all the women
folks and drummin' up likely gals for it. They say he actooally sent an
invite to the Widder Wade," remarked another lounger. "Gosh! he's got
cheek!"
"Well, gentlemen," said the proprietor judicially, "while we don't
intend to hev any minin' camp fandangos or 'Frisco falals round Santa
Any--(Santa Ana was proud of its simple agricultural virtues)--I ain't
so hard-shelled as not to give new things a fair trial. And, after all,
it's the women folk that has the say about it. Why, there's old Miss
Ford sez she hasn't kicked a fut sence she left Mizoori, but wouldn't
mind trying it agin. Ez to Brooks takin' that trouble--well, I suppose
it's along o' his bein' HEALTHY!" He heaved a deep dyspeptic sigh, which
was faintly echoed by the others. "Why, look at him now, ridin' round
on that black hoss o' his, in the wet since daylight and not carin' for
blind chills or rhumatiz!"
He was looking at a serape-draped horseman, the one the widow had seen
on the previous night, who was now cantering slowly up the street.
Seeing the group on the veranda, he rode up, threw himself lightly from
his saddle, and joined them. He was an alert, determined, good-looking
fellow of about thirty-five, whose smooth, smiling face hardly commended
itself to Santa Ana, though his eyes were distinctly sympathetic. He
glanced at the depressed group around him and became ominously serious.
"When did it happen?" he asked gravely.
"What happen?" said the nearest bystander.
"The Funeral, Flood, Fight, or Fire. Which of the four F's was it?"
"What are ye talkin' about?" said the proprietor stiffly, scenting some
dangerous humor.
"YOU," said Brooks promptly. "You're all standing here, croaking like
crows, this fine morning. I passed YOUR farm, Johnson, not an hour ago;
the wheat just climbing out of the black adobe mud as thick as rows of
pins on paper--what have YOU to grumble at? I saw YOUR stock, Briggs,
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