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THE TREASURE TRAIL
KIT AND THE GIRL OF THE LARK CALL
In the shade of Pedro Vijil's little brown adobe on the Granados rancho, a horseman squatted to repair a broken cinch with strips of rawhide, while his horse--a strong dappled roan with a smutty face--stood near, the rawhide bridle over his head and the quirt trailing the ground.
The horseman's frame of mind was evidently not of the sweetest, for to Vijil he had expressed himself in forcible Mexican--which is supposed to be Spanish and often isn't--condemning the luck by which the cinch had gone bad at the wrong time, and as he tinkered he sang softly an old southern ditty:
He varied this musical gem occasionally by whistling the air as he punched holes and wove the rawhide thongs in and out through the spliced leather.
Once he halted in the midst of a strain and lifted his head, listening. Something like an echo of his own notes sounded very close, a mere shadow of a whistle.
Then, after a still minute, more than the whisper of a whistle came to him--the subdued sweet call of a meadow lark. It was so sweet it might have been mate to any he had heard on the range that morning.
Only an instant he hesitated, then with equal care he gave the duplicate call, and held his breath to listen--not a sound came back.
"We've gone loco, Pardner," he observed to the smutty-faced roan moving near him. "That jolt from the bay outlaw this morning has jingled my brain pans--we don't hear birds call us--we only think we do."
If he had even looked at Pardner he might have been given a sign, for the roan had lifted its head and was staring into the shadows back of the sweating olla.
"Hi, you caballero!"
"Hi, yourself!" he retorted, "whose ghost are you?"
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