Something will turn up."
That afternoon Gloriana turned up.
We were sitting upon the verandah oppressed with the weight of beans,
bacon, and soggy biscuit. As we smoked in silence our eyes rested
gloomily upon the landscape--our domain. Before us lay an amber-
coloured, sun-scorched plain; beyond were the foot-hills, bristling
with chaparral, scrub-oaks, pines and cedars; beyond these again rose
the grey peaks of the Santa Lucia range, pricking the eastern horizon.
Over all hung the palpitating skies, eternally and exasperatingly
blue, a-quiver with light and heat.
"Somebody's coming," said Ajax.
The country road, white with alkaline dust, crossed the ranch at right
angles. Far away, to the left, was a faint blur upon the pink hills.
"It's no wagon," said Ajax idly, "and a _vaquero_ would never
ride in the dust. It must be a buggy."
Five minutes later we could distinguish a quaint figure sitting
upright in an ancient buckboard whose wheels wobbled and creaked with
almost human infirmity. A mule furnished the motive power.
"Is it a man or a woman?" said Ajax.
"Possibly," I replied, "a cook.
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