About half an hour after his conversation with Mrs. Van Zandt, Marc Scott drove the buckboard with its two lively horses out on the Conejo road. Beside him sat a blond dog of mixed genealogy answering to the name of “Yellow.” Scott had put on a coat over his flannel shirt, tucked his trousers into a pair of riding boots, and replaced his sombrero with a soft cloth hat. These changes having been made in honor of the visitor, he felt that his duty had been fulfilled and he addressed Yellow ruminatively:

“Well, I expect we got to brush up a bit on our manners if we’re going to have a young lady around, eh, Yellow? Going to be some strain on us both, I’ll say. Funny idea to run off to a place like this just because you’ve quarreled with your young man! Got the temper that goes with red hair, I guess. I remember a red-haired girl I used to know in Detroit——” A grin succeeded the worried look on Scott’s face; evidently the adventure with the red-haired girl had had its humorous side.

“Well, get up, Romeo, we’ve got to reach that girl before Mendoza dumps her in the ditch and gets her mussed up or the boss’ll fire us both.”

Romeo, a good-looking gray, with an excitable nature, snorted as he felt the touch of the whip and dragged his gentler mate into a lively trot. A new moon, clear cut and beautiful, was rising behind them, over the tall mountains, making the valley—so bare by day—lovely and mysterious in its half light.

“No kind of a night to be driving around with a dog, Yellow,” remarked the driver, reproachfully. “Men and moonlight are made for better things.”

The horses trotted briskly; they were covering ground rapidly. They ought, Marc figured, to meet the machine this side of Junipero Hill, a steep and cruel grade which he would be glad to spare his horses if he could. If Mendoza was making any sort of speed he ought to have come that far. He began to watch for the lights of the machine. The girl must be plucky, even if she was foolish, to dare a trip like this with a strange Mexican.

Well, he was glad Bob’s sister was nervy; he liked nervy girls and he liked Bob. Usually fellows who came out from college and took positions over other men’s heads made fools of themselves; but Bob was not a fool. He was a decent, likable young chap, who knew he had been luckier than the next fellow and who took no advantage of it.

“Which is more than you can say of most rich men’s sons,” soliloquized Scott. “But then why should you expect sense from a rich man’s son? Where’d they get it? It’s hard knocks gives a man sense—if he’s ever going to get it, which most of them ain’t!”

There was loneliness in the air. Scott, who was temperamental, as out-of-doors men often are, felt it keenly. It brought before him more clearly the loneliness of his own life, a life spent in out-of-the-way places, largely among men; a life with no roots, he sometimes felt. Yet he would not have traded his freedom, he would have told you, for any woman, for a home or for children. To be foot loose, to go where fancy called him, to have no ties—no clogs upon his precious liberty, that was what he loved.

He was fond of women, too. He liked being with them and he liked measuring each one he met with his ideal, a hazy creature who probably did not exist. Well, he rather hoped she didn’t, or if she did that he would never meet her. He had known too many men who had traded their freedom for a home and a fireside and who, once bound, had never been able to go back to the old life. It had not always been the women who had held them, either; the men themselves had seemed to change—to deteriorate, Scott would have said—to have lost the energy and the vigor that made life worth while. You cannot get anything for nothing and you paid for the happiness you might find in marriage with the loss of the one thing which was to him the most important thing in all life—liberty.

So they jogged along, Scott whistling to keep himself company. Occasionally, Yellow would insist upon getting out for a run, but he seemed glad to return. After a while it began to seem odd to Scott that he did not see the lights of Mendoza’s car. Even a cautious driver should have made the distance by this time.

Suddenly, an idea popped into his head—one of those clammy ideas, which come instantly, and come with a chill; ideas that are positively physical in the way in which they affect one. Suppose it was Mendoza’s car with someone else driving it? Someone of the score of half-breeds who hung around the livery stable where the car was kept? Scott leaned over and laid the whip on the innocent Romeo.

“My God, horse, we’ve got to go some the rest of the way! If——”

He did not finish the sentence. They had reached the top of a hill and he put on the brake as they started down. At the foot of the hill stood an automobile—not Mendoza’s shabby little Ford—but a big car with two large headlights. It was turned across the road and not a soul was in sight. Scott took his foot off the brake and with a muttered curse let the buckboard rattle down the hill.

Polly’s first sensation, as she sank into the comfortable seat next the driver and buried her face in the collar of her coat, was one of intense relief. This was something that seemed like home. She felt herself being whirled up the streets of Conejo with the feeling of one who is escaping, the flight being for the time of more importance than the fashion in which one flies.

“I think you will be cold,” said a polite voice at her elbow. “Wait—I have a robe.” And a blanket which smelled of the stable rather than of the garage was wrapped carefully around her. “In a few moments we shall be out of this sand.”

For a while they rode in silence, then the girl said, apologetically:

“I am so sorry. I didn’t want you to go to all this trouble—but I couldn’t stay in that awful place when Bob is so near!”

“If you think Conejo is bad I wonder what you would think of some of our towns further south? They are ruins.”

“Ruins?”

“Ten years of revolution—they do not improve a country.”

Polly did not reply. She peeped out of her collar and saw that Pachuca’s prophecy was fulfilled. They had ridden out of the area of the sand-storm and were getting into the foothills where the air was cold and clear. They faced the new moon which gave an eerie look to everything—the distant mountains, the foothills with their weird patches of vegetation, tall cacti and dark looking arroyos. Far, far in their rear could be seen the few feeble lights of Conejo. It began to dawn upon an awed Polly that she was doing not an unconventional but a distinctly risky thing.

What did she know about this good-looking boy who sat beside her, guiding the car so expertly through the ruts and chuck holes that chopped up the road? Suppose he turned out to be—she caught her breath angrily! He was no common Mexican but a gentleman and one was not afraid of men of one’s own class, she told herself. She would not be afraid. She hated people who were afraid. She was having a wonderful experience; the sort of an experience that girls read about but didn’t have, and she was going to enjoy it.

“I forgot to ask you if you had anything to eat,” said Juan Pachuca. “You didn’t, did you?”

“I had crackers,” said Polly. “What did you have?”

“I was more fortunate. I found my friend at dinner,” replied the young man.

“Where were you going when you met me?”

“Eventually to my ranch, but first to find you. I did not think you would stay with the SeÑora Morgan.”

Polly laughed in spite of herself.

“I couldn’t,” she confessed. “Do you know, she seemed to think it doubtful that Bob and Emma had come back to Athens? I wonder why?”

“Perhaps,” replied the Mexican, “she thought the country not quite safe for a young lady.”

“But I thought things were settling down?”

“There will be no settling down until after the elections.”

“The elections?”

“You would not understand. Americans never do.”

“Perhaps some of us might if you gave us a chance; but when you go rearing and pitching around, killing us and raiding border towns like that murderous Villa——”

“In war there is no murder,” said Juan Pachuca, calmly. “And Villa is a friend of mine.”

“Well, I can’t help it, and I think it’s very strange for a well brought up boy like you to be friends with a man like Villa.”

Pachuca laughed as he glanced at the girl’s wrathful face.

“Why do you call me a well brought up boy?” he asked.

“Because you are, aren’t you? You remind me a lot of a cousin of mine who’s just entering college.”

“How old is the cousin?”

“Nineteen.”

“When I was nineteen I was a colonel in the army,” said Juan Pachuca, whimsically. “That was six years ago.”

“Good gracious!”

“Why not?”

“Well, in our country we don’t take boys of nineteen very seriously,” said Polly, a little upset. “Did you fight much?”

“A good deal. I suppose then that young men of nineteen do not fall in love either in your country?”

“Oh, yes, they do, but nobody pays much attention to them. We call it puppy love.”

“Puppy love!” Juan frowned. “You are a strange people—you Americans.”

“Yes, I suppose we are but we like ourselves that way. Do you think that engine of yours is all right? It sounds queer to me.”

Pachuca shrugged his shoulders.

“It gives me trouble sometimes. It needs what you call an overhauling, but it will take us to Athens.”

Polly, with an ear trained to engine sounds, wondered whether it would. She felt that the last straw would be to be stranded in the middle of the night in a lonely spot with this good-looking young man, who, to make matters worse, had turned out to be twenty-five instead of nineteen. Again they sat in silence while the machine wrenched itself in and out of ruts and through arroyos.

She found herself wondering what his life had been? A colonel at nineteen! She remembered the boys she had known in our own army, boys she had fed and sewed for on their way to France. They, too, had seemed young, but she felt a great difference. This young man suggested things of which Polly knew little. She wondered whether it was imagination that made her fancy that he had played a part in life which does not usually fall to twenty-five, except in a country so disordered, so desperate as Mexico.

Some of her boy friends who had come back from France and Belgium had carried in their faces some such suggestion, but only a few. For the most part they had come back as they went over, those who had returned whole; husky, lively, youngish chaps—more restless, less satisfied with life at home, perhaps, but not older particularly.

“That’s why he seems odd to me,” she concluded. “He’s done and seen things that a fellow his age hasn’t any business to have done and seen—that is, the way we look at it at home. Oh dear, I wonder if we’re ever going to get there? I can’t keep still much longer and yet I hate to stir him up.”

“The girls in your country, do they fall in love at nineteen?” said Juan Pachuca, suddenly. There was a softness in his voice that under other conditions—say, in a ballroom—Polly would probably have described as melting. In her present environment it struck her less pleasantly.

“Girls? Oh, yes, of course they do; but not in the desperate, hot-headed way your young ladies do. At least, not usually. Of course some girls do queer things and get into the newspapers.”

“Ah, our young ladies do not get into the newspapers,” commented Juan Pachuca. “They are guarded quite carefully; that is, our girls of good family. Most of them are very beautiful.”

“But aren’t they just a little bit tiresome? I mean, just being beautiful and guarded and all that sort of thing. At home we like a girl who has seen a little of life,” apologetically.

“Not a young lady of family!” said Pachuca, decidedly.

“Well, of course, in America we don’t think a lot about family, though it’s nice to have it if you can. We think more of education and getting on in the world. SeÑor, I wish you would get down and look at that engine; there’s something awfully wrong with it.”

Polly spoke suddenly for Juan Pachuca was leaning very close to her.

“Your young ladies are charming,” he said, softly. “I had always heard it and now I know it is true.” His black eyes were dancing; it would have taken some guessing to know whether with excitement or laughter or both. “Do they ever forget themselves so far as to allow themselves a love affair on a silver night when——”

“No, they do not,” said Polly, half severely and half amused. It was difficult to take Juan Pachuca’s rudeness seriously and yet—oh, why had she come?

“Not a desperate, hot-headed love affair such as pleases the young ladies of my country,” he pursued, seizing the hand so near him. “But one of those—what do you call them in your tongue—flirtations?”

He was laughing but there was a smoldering fire back of the laughter, and the grasp of his hand was strong.

“SeÑor, now please—remember that I didn’t come with you because I wanted to, but because I had to! Please!” For Pachuca’s arm had slid itself deftly around her and was drawing her toward him, gently, but with an exceeding firmness, while the dancing dark eyes continued to laugh into hers. “There, see what you’ve done!”

The big car had given a most unwieldy lurch, wedged a tire in a rut, bounced a couple of times, and stopped—providentially—on the edge of the deep gully that fringed the road.

“It is nothing,” declared the young man, a bit stunned by the suddenness of the affair. The car, however, refusing to back, gave him the lie. Polly tore herself from his detaining arm and was out in the road.

“If you had an electric torch I could tell you what it is,” she said, trying to control both nerves and temper, for she was both frightened and angry. “Have you?”

“I think so,” replied Pachuca, a little stiffly. “But, please, dear lady, do not get down in the dirt! I beg of you!”

“I don’t mind. I know every little pain an engine can have. I drove an emergency car at home during the war,” said Polly, curtly.

“Indeed?” Juan Pachuca’s voice was cool. The young lady was business-like—too business-like to flirt with—and yet——

“No, it’s not that.” Polly shook the curls out of her eyes and slammed the cover of the radiator. “Where do you think it is? You ought to know something about this car; you’ve been driving it.”

Pachuca’s eyes danced. What was the use of being stiff with an American? They were all alike—the men after money, and the women after what they called independence!

“I think,” he said, demurely, “that it must be attacked from underneath, if you will hold the torch.”

“All right.” Polly smiled. “Go ahead. If you can’t find it, I’ll try.”

Thus it was that Marc Scott’s first acquaintance with Polly Street came as he pulled the excited team to its haunches within a few feet of the automobile, and she, holding Juan Pachuca’s torch, jumped to her feet and faced him.

“Oh!” she cried, eagerly, “is that you, Bob?” Then, seeing more clearly, “I beg your pardon! We’ve had trouble with the car, but we’ve fixed it and we’ll be out of the way in a moment.”

“I’m not Bob Street, but I’m from Athens, and I’m looking for Bob’s sister. I guess you must be her,” replied Scott. “Well, who are you?” he added, as Juan Pachuca’s legs emerged from the car, followed by his body.

“It’s not Mendoza—he’s sick,” volunteered Polly. “It’s a gentleman who was in the train and who kindly drove me over. Where is my brother?”

“Your letter only came to-night,” stammered Scott, “and in the same mail we had one from your brother in Douglas, saying he had been called East——”

“East!” The blow was too sudden; Polly’s legs collapsed. She sat down on the running-board of the machine and gasped. In the meantime Juan Pachuca stepped to the buckboard.

“It is SeÑor Scott?” he said pleasantly. “We have met before.”

Scott surveyed him thoughtfully. “Well, by the Lord, if it ain’t Johnny Pachuca! Of all the nerve——”

“Exactly,” grinned Pachuca, appreciatively. “You are surprised, eh? What are you going to do about it?”

“That depends upon how you’ve treated the young lady,” said Marc, quietly, “and on your general behavior,” he added, with a reciprocal grin.

“Haven’t I told you that he was kind enough to drive me over?” said Polly, impatiently. “And if——”

“That being the case,” replied Scott, “I don’t know as there’s anything I can do except say much obliged, and keep my eye on my horse-flesh. If you’ll get into the wagon, Miss ——”

“Oh, he’s all right,” said Pachuca, airily, as the girl hesitated. “He’s the manager of the Athens mine—Marc Scott—a very decent fellow. I regret being deprived of your company, seÑorita, but he evidently intends to take you back with him.”

“Any baggage?” demanded Scott, gruffly.

“One trunk,” replied Polly, rather dazed by the suddenness of the affair. “But it’s back at Conejo.”

“Want any help with that car?”

“No, thank you, the young lady and I have remedied the trouble.”

“Of course there’s no use in my asking if there’s any particular reason for your being in this neighborhood, Pachuca?”

“There is always a reason for my being where I am,” was the suave reply. “This time it does not concern you.”

“That’s good. No revolutions up your sleeve, eh?”

Pachuca chuckled. “I wouldn’t be too sure of that, amigo,” he said. “Would you take the advice of a friend, Marc Scott?”

“I might, if you’d guarantee he ain’t lying.”

“Then tell your people to close up their mine, take their women and get out of the country. There is trouble coming,” and the young Mexican bowed politely to the girl and returned to his machine.

“Now, what do you suppose the young devil meant by that?” demanded Scott, as he turned the team and faced the hill again. Polly’s eyes were wide open.

“Who is he?” she said, eagerly. “You seemed to know him. Does he really live near here?”

“I believe he has a ranch about here somewhere—some ways south. As to where he lives I reckon he could hardly tell you that himself.”

“But where did you know him?”

“I don’t know him. I don’t want to know him. The last time I saw him was when Villa stopped over with us on one of his retreats. This guy was with him. That little visit cost us a dozen good horses, two hundred dollars, and our winter’s supply of canned goods. He’s an expensive acquaintance, that fellow.”

Polly’s face was full of horror. “Do you mean,” she gasped, “that I’ve been riding around the country with a Mexican bandit?”

“Oh, I don’t know as I’d call him a bandit.”

“He told me that he was a colonel in the army!” indignantly.

“Well, he was, so I’ve heard. He’s been quite a lot of things. Maybe we’d better not talk about him any more to-night. It’s kind of exciting for you after all you’ve been through.”

“Exciting!” Polly sank back in her seat limply.

“He was all right to you, wasn’t he?” continued Scott, a little shyly. “Wasn’t fresh or anything like that?”

“Oh, yes, he was all right,” murmured the girl, quickly.

“These Mexicans are queer. You can’t tell what they’ll do,” went on Scott. “Sometimes they’ve got manners like the President of the United States, and the next time they’ll do something that’d disgrace a pirate. Take ’em all around as they go, I guess Pachuca stacks up pretty well. He’s educated and comes of good folks. But how the deuce did you happen——”

“Oh, I suppose it does sound awful!” Polly said, in a rush. “But he was on the train and when the horrid little thing stopped on the side of a hill for two hours, he came along and explained what was the matter.”

“He talks English like a Bostonese,” said Scott.

“Doesn’t he? And anything that sounds like Boston just naturally puts confidence in a Chicagoan, don’t you know? Then when I landed at Conejo in that wild sand-storm with no one to meet me and the Morgans out of town, he offered to drive me over, and I let him. It didn’t seem far; why, at home we often drive that far in an evening.”

“Well, driving around the boulevard with your friends is one thing, and around this sort of country with a strange Mexican is another.” Scott paused at the sight of the girl’s penitent face, and changed the subject. “As for your brother, we had a letter from him to-night saying that he and the bride had gone East. The directors sent for him, so they started pronto. I reckon Miss Emma’s folks coaxed them to stay in Douglas a few days after the wedding—we had expected them here before this.”

“But how did you know——”

Scott cleared his throat nervously. “Well, you see, he wrote me to read all his mail——” he stopped, abruptly. “Go on, Romeo!”

“I see. You opened my letter and found out that I was coming, and came to meet me. I am very much obliged to you.” The words were pleasant enough but the tone was cool.

“She’s on the trail,” Scott thought, disconsolately. “She’s running over in her mind what she said in that letter, and when she remembers, it’s going to be a good idea to get home as soon as possible.”

After this, the silence was extremely marked. Scott, feeling the discomfort of it, continued:

“It’s too bad for you to have had this long trip and then miss your brother after all, but I guess he’ll be back soon, the way things are looking.”

More silence, but Scott was not going to be scared out of his good intentions.

“I reckon we can make you pretty comfortable till he comes. We’ve got a mighty pleasant lady running the boarding-house just now and she’ll be glad enough to have another white woman on the place.”

The silence still continuing, he gave up. “Hang it, if she won’t talk, she won’t,” he thought. Then as he turned to tuck in a flying end of robe he saw the girl’s face. “Great guns, she’s asleep—poor kid!”

The end of a far from perfect day had come for Polly Street, and even an uncomfortable seat with a hard back and the joltings of a rough road had failed to keep her awake. She was asleep, sitting up, her head drooping, her body relaxed. In a few seconds she would be leaning comfortably on the broad shoulder next her. Without interrupting the team’s even trot, Scott leaned down, fished another blanket from under the seat and arranged it on the back of the seat between them just in time to receive Polly’s sleepy head, so that she rested half on the blanket, and half on his own steady bulk for the rest of the trip.

“Poor youngster, she has had a day of it,” the man said softly, as he arranged the blanket carefully around her. “And, by gum, I’ll bet she hasn’t had a mouthful to eat since noon! Well, women have endurance, I’ll say they have. Built like Angora kittens and with the constitutions of beef critters. Go on, Romeo—I don’t want her fainting with hunger on my hands, she’s mad enough at me now.”