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T WAS past the turn of day when Don Abrahan concluded his business with the Yankee captain and took the road home again, with his goods coming after him in the great wagon, his Indian servants tramping beside it. Night would settle long before they could reach the ranch, there was the taste of rain already on the wind; but there would be no halting on the way either for night or rain. When Don Abrahan left an order behind him, men must forego all that was their right and desire to carry it out to the final word.

As for Don Abrahan himself, he rode in excellent spirits, already half-way to his hacienda, or estate, at least that part of it where his homestead lay. The estate itself would have required a day's journey to cross at its greatest width, although it did not extend so far as this toward the sea.

A matter of six or seven miles north of the pueblo of Los Angeles, Don Abrahan's ranch buildings lay snugly against the hills. Although much of his secular and political interest centered in the town, there was more that was dearer to him, ambitious man that he was, which he loved to sequester and nurture in the quietude of the hills.

A few miles ahead of him as he rode, the pueblo