Old Sutro and young Steenie were where they might have been found on almost every day at the same hour,—down on the beach, where the great cañon cut through the mesa to the sea.

A group of rocks, roughly piled, and a few evergreen shrubs clustering about them, made a pleasant break in a long, monotonous stretch of coast, and the coolness of the spot was always refreshing after their canter in the sunshine. Their horses had been unsaddled and set free to browse upon the herbage up the cañon; and these moved here and there, lazily, as if—like the old caballero himself—they felt the languor of that midday hour.

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