Early next afternoon a lone¹ horseman rode slowly into the plaza². Both the appearance of horse and rider gave evidence of a long hard journey. The man’s sunburned face, shadowed by the broad brim of his sombrero, looked lined and haggard; his clothes, too, were torn and dusty.

 

The animal’s shaggy body was steaming, while his slow, spiritless movements and dejected mien³ showed plainly that food, water, and rest were urgently needed.

 

“Hello!” exclaimed Tom, with the others standing⁴ on the veranda⁵. “What’s that?”

 

“Forsooth—if I mistake not a man—a horse,” laughed Cranny.

 

“And, by Jove, best of all, an American!” cried Bob Somers, who had been gazing intently toward the approaching rider. One good look at the man’s clean-cut features convinced the others that Bob was right. They[100] observed something else, too; he held the reins⁶ in his left hand; the other was swathed in bandages.

 

“H’m; looks as though he’d been in some kind of muss,” commented Tom.

 

“So it does,” agreed Dick.

 

The rider as he came up, on discovering so many of his compatriots facing him, appeared so surprised that for a moment he allowed their cheery salutations to go unanswered.

 

“Well, well,” he began at last. “I didn’t——”

 

“Of course not,” said Tom, cheerfully. “Nobody ever does. But I say”—he pointed⁷ to the young man’s arm—“is it——?”

 

“It is!” answered the other in grim tones. “Quite badly, too.” Slowly he dismounted, shook a cloud of dust from his clothes, then patted the mustang’s shaggy head.

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