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Let the old crones, who had a heart for such things, bestir themselves! On account of her dictatorial airs they called her a no-good, anyway. It mattered but little to the girl. The men about the rancho paid her homage of an ardor only limited by her own pleasure, and Suzanna, for all her lack of education and culture, had long since digested the fact that it was the men who mattered.
    Suzanna had often stolen away for an afternoon along the San Carmelo, and once she was within the protecting hills which bordered the stream, she allowed her burro to make his own pace. It was an afternoon well suited for day dreaming, and she had an endless number of air-castles to build.
    A week gone she had met a stranger in these very hills,—a knightly man, for all that he had proven overly bold. Suzanna had scorned him, but the thought that she might meet him again intruded on her revery more than once as she rode along.
    Pico, her burro, was in perfect accord with the lazy day, and he dragged himself and his burden over the hot trail. Eventually, however, he brought Suzanna to the river’s edge, where he stood lackadaisically switching his tail. Suzanna prodded him, but he refused to move. With darkening eyes, she brought her pole into play. Pico only flicked an indifferent ear in answer.
    Where the burro had stopped, it was intolerably hot. Across the river was a cool, shady, moss-covered bank, agreeable to the eye and inviting to the body. Remained but to ford the stream to attain it. The water was delightfully cool and the fording shallow; but Pico had no liking for it.
    The girl’s temper rose as she sought to drive the stubborn beast across. “Madre de Dios, Pico,” she stormed, “I’ll put this rod into your vitals if you don’t make haste.”
    Pico silently dared her to do her worst. Suzanna found his hide an excellent barrier against her efforts. Ten minutes must have elapsed as the struggle went on. Suddenly the roar of a gun in the burro’s immediate rear broke the stillness of the river bottom. Pico bounded for the opposite bank in punishing leaps, Suzanna clinging to him as best she could.
    A laugh, and the sound of someone fording the stream, reached her as she slipped from the burro’s back. With pounding heart and eyes wide with fear she turned to protect herself. Before her, hat in hand as he bowed to the ground, stood the stranger whom she had met before, Benito Pérez!
    â€œBuenas tardes, querida mia,” he murmured unctiously. “You are a ravishing surprise for so hot a day.”

CHAPTER V
“DOES THE NAME MATTER?”
    S UZANNA ’ S eyes flashed as she saw who addressed her, even though she did not by any chance suspect him to be the outlaw Pérez. As has been said, the man had a way with him which caught the fancy. Suzanna had not escaped it, neither had she failed to recognize the unbroken spirit of him. She had trimmed her sails accordingly, for, to a certainty, the man was little likely to pay heed once he was out of hand.
    Seeing in him but an over-ripe caballero , Suzanna felt no great fear at his discovery of her so far from the casério . The manner of his approach and his terms of endearment deserved a rebuke however, and she was not slow in acquainting him with as much.
    â€œ ‘Querida mia?’ ” she echoed sarcastically. “Since when? Do you lie in hiding like a wolf, ready to pounce upon me the minute I stir from the casério? Answer me!” she snapped. “You are more presumptuous than ever.”
    Pérez gazed at her good-naturedly, if Impudently, delighting in her show of temper.
    â€œCome little one,” he said chidingly, “why scold me for being presumptuous when it is the very quality a woman most admires in a man? You would do well not to turn those flashing eyes on me, for they but match your lips, and steal away my senses.”
    â€œPretty words,” Suzanna answered with fine contempt.