Henry Barbour, in his hammock between the two madrone trees at the Sky Ranch, has had a pleasant siesta this afternoon, with the latest copy of the National Geographic lying open on his chest. It's three o'clock now, and into Henry's consciousness comes an awareness of distant hoofbeats, and a party of riders on the old road, coming down from the hills towards the stables. He rises, to find his daughter Hazel, smiling down at him.