It was midnight when the buckboard stopped in front of the company house where Mrs. Van Zandt and Henry Hard assisted the drowsy Polly out of the wagon, while Scott painstakingly performed the introductions.

“Nothing to eat since noon!” gasped Mrs. Van Zandt, in horror. “What on earth was old lady Morgan thinking of? Mr. Hard, if you’ll throw some more wood into the stove, I’ll put on the percolator and run down to the dining-room for some sandwiches.” She ran off in one direction, while Scott drove the team in another, leaving Hard to do the honors.

“It’s a shame to have things happen this way,” he said. “A thousand times I’ve heard Bob talk about having you come down here, and now that you’ve come, he’s flying in another direction.”

“It’s my own fault,” admitted Polly, honestly. “We are all so sudden in our family—make up our minds and hardly wait to write or telegraph. I might have known that Bob would be doing something just as queer as I was. How comfortably you have this place fixed! Am I turning you out of it?”

“Oh, we’re tramps, Scott and I. We thought it would be pleasanter for you to be here with Mrs. Van Zandt, so we moved ourselves out. We rather like changing about.” He built up the fire and adjusted the percolator, while Polly divested herself of her hat and coat and sat down in a comfortable chair.

“It won’t be for long,” she said, decidedly. “I shall go back as soon as I can now that Bob and Emma are home.”

“I hope you won’t. Apart from the very great pleasure that it gives us all to see someone from home, it would be a pity to let you go back without seeing some of the country.”

Polly laughed in spite of her weariness.

“It seems to me as though I’d seen the entire country of Mexico to-day,” she said. “Such a trip!”

“Isn’t it, though? The first time I made it I said: ‘Here is where I locate for life and found a colony. I’ll never have the courage to go home.’ But I got over it.”

Mrs. Van Zandt bustling in, followed by Scott, their hands full of provisions, found the two chatting sociably.

“I’d have had cake for you,” volunteered the former, “if Dolores and her beau hadn’t ate it all on me.”

“It’s like a midnight feast at boarding-school,” chuckled the visitor, waked up by the coffee.

“It’s like the spreads we used to have when we was on the road,” said Mrs. Van Zandt, meditatively.

“On the road?” Polly’s eyes opened wide.

“Mrs. Van was one of the original ‘Floradora Sextette,’” remarked Scott, soberly. “The only one who didn’t marry a millionaire.”

“A lot you know about it,” retorted the lady. “I was in the ‘Prince of Pilsen,’” she informed Polly, confidentially. “I understudied the ‘Widow’ on the road. It was an interesting life,” she concluded, thoughtfully.

“It must have been,” replied Polly, politely. “How did you happen to come West?”

“Me? Oh, I came West with an invalid,” replied Mrs. Van, easily. “She was one of the cranky kind—middle-aged and none of her family could live with her. You’ve seen that kind? They wanted she should have a trained nurse and the trained nurse never was born that she could get along with. Trained nurses are awful bossy—they can’t help it, they’re supposed to be; that’s all the difference there is between them and the ones that ain’t trained. So I come out to look after her.”

“Did she die?”

“Not she. Get it out of your head that lungers always die—they don’t. She got well and went home and nagged the life out of her family for years. Last I heard of her, she’d taken up with a young fellow she met at a skating rink and her folks were wild for fear she’d marry him.”

“Then you stayed out West?”

“Yes, and sometimes I’ve regretted it. New York’s the place to live. I had a swell flat in a good neighborhood and rented rooms to single gents and business women—they’re the ones that have the money. It was interesting, too. I’d put an ‘ad’ in the Sunday paper and all day Monday folks would be coming to see my rooms; I met some real nice people that way. Well, I think you’d better be turning in; you’ll feel this to-morrow.”

Scott and Hard rose and said good-night.

“That’s a plucky girl, Scott,” said the latter, as they walked down the silent road together.

“Do you know who brought her over from Conejo?” demanded Scott, with a chuckle.

“I thought you said Mendoza did.”

“Mendoza’s sick and she took a dislike to old Mrs. Morgan, so she came over with Juan Pachuca in his car.”

“You’re joking.”

“I am not. I drove as far as Junipero Hill and when I got to the top of it I saw a big car at the foot, twisted about, almost in the ditch. I found Johnny on his stomach under the car and the girl holding an electric torch for him. She said she’d been underneath giving him a hand with it. I wouldn’t put it past her.”

“But the child must be out of her head,” protested Hard, weakly. “They don’t do those things—even in these degenerate days.”

“I guess you and me are behind the times, Henry. And then, you know Pachuca’s manners. Something between the King of Spain and Chauncey Depew. Any woman’d fall for them.”

“But——”

“But nothing. Pachuca brought her over and he behaved himself while he was doing it as near as I can find out. What I want to know is what the smooth young devil wants around here?”

“If there’s a revolution in the air, Pachuca would throw in his lot with Obregon and De la Huerta. What he thinks about the First Chief is unprintable.”

“He had the cheek to tell me to close up the mine and get out of the country,” grinned Scott.

“That may mean something and it may not. They’re keen about their bit of melodrama, these chaps. My El Paso paper says that there is a rumor again about troops having been ordered in from Chihuahua. That looks as though they were afraid of something.”

“Or else were trying to stir up something,” replied the other. “Obregon’s never going to stand for Carranza’s candidate for the election. His own chances are too good. It might be a wise plan for the Government to stir up a little revolution on its own hook and get in the first hits.”

“Might be. Anything might be down here; that’s why it’s such an interesting place to live. Still, I don’t altogether like the idea of Pachuca roaming the country like a lion escaped from a circus.”

“Those lions never do much harm,” observed Scott, cheerfully. “Of course, if he hitches up with Villa——”

“I seem to have heard that he and Villa had a row. I should say he was more likely to try to organize a crowd of his own and get in on the fireworks.”

“If he does it’s good-bye to our fellows,” said Scott. “It would be a case of the Pied Piper and the rats; and Johnny’s a mighty good piper.”

Hard glanced at his companion in some amusement. Scott, who was a man of little education, had periodic spells of promiscuous reading, and frequently surprised his friend with his references.

“It wouldn’t be only our men, either,” he said, a moment later.

“I was thinking of that,” replied Scott. “Old Herrick’s would go, too. I wish you could persuade him to go back to England, Hard; that ranch of his is no place for an artist.”

Hard nodded. “I doubt if I could,” he said. “Herrick’s obstinate.”

They had reached the cabin where they were to sleep and were hailed drowsily but inquisitively by Adams.

“Hullo, you guys! Did you find the lady?”

“We did, and she asked warmly after you,” replied Scott. Then, in a low tone to Hard: “No use saying anything about Pachuca to the boys.”

Hard nodded. “Better not,” he agreed.

“Did she? I think you lie,” replied Adams, sleepily. “Don’t be any noisier than you can help, you two, getting to bed. I’ve lost two hours of my beauty sleep now waitin’ up for you and I need my rest.”

“I’m going over to my place to give the men their breakfast,” said Mrs. Van Zandt, looking into Polly’s bedroom the next morning. “Just you lay in bed until you’re rested.”

“I’m rested now,” said the girl, sitting up. “Is there—no, of course there isn’t a bathtub on the place?” she laughed.

“Bathtub? Well, I should say not, but your pitcher’s full, I guess. You’ll get used to being without bathtubs after a while. They ain’t half as important as folks think.”

“I don’t mind. I’ve camped,” said Polly, heroically. “What I really wanted to ask you was how soon you thought I could get away?”

“Get away? Why, ain’t you just come?”

“Yes, but I thought Bob was here. I never would have dumped myself down upon a lot of strangers like this.”

“If that’s all that bothers you, turn over and get another nap. If the Superintendent’s own sister ain’t got a right to a few weeks’ board and lodging, I don’t know who has. As for the boys, don’t worry about them. I’m an honest-to-goodness widow and I guess I can chaperon you all right.”

Polly laughed again. Mrs. Van Zandt’s eye took in her appearance thoughtfully.

“Do you sleep in those things all the time?” she said. “I mean, are they all you brought?”

Polly glanced at her diaphanous pajamas and nodded cheerfully.

“Well, I’ll see that you have an extra blanket. Nights are cold here,” and Mrs. Van hurried away. Polly called after her. “Well?” she said, reappearing in the doorway.

“Is this Bob’s room, Mrs. Van Zandt?” the girl asked.

“No, it’s Mr. Hard’s, but you needn’t worry about him. He’ll be quite comfortable at the other house.”

“I was wondering——” Polly blushed. One hates to be curious, and yet—“I was wondering who that was?” pointing to a photograph on the dresser.

“Her name’s Conrad—she’s a widow woman from Boston, an old friend of his. Pretty, ain’t she?”

“Very.”

“He never told me anything about her,” admitted Mrs. Van, candidly. “Mr. Hard ain’t one to chatter about his private affairs, but I got it out of Marc Scott.”

“Oh!”

“He said she was a singer; married an Englishman and lived down near Mexico City. Husband died two or three years ago. I’ve a notion she’s an old sweetheart of Henry Hard’s—you can tell from her clothes it’s an old picture.”

“I like her looks,” commented Polly.

“So do I. Give me a wide-awake looking woman every time,” agreed Mrs. Van Zandt. “There, I must hustle or Dolores will put red pepper in the eggs.”

Polly stared at the photograph. It was of a tall, slender woman, with large dark eyes, and obviously of a personality distinctly pleasing. She had, even in the photograph, an air of vitality which accounted for Mrs. Van’s comment.

“And he looks like the sort of man who would stay single for a woman,” she said, pensively. Then her thoughts returned to her own position. Her eyes filled.

“Oh, why did I come? Why did I?” she asked herself for the fiftieth time. “Because I was a coward and didn’t want to hear what people were going to say about me. As though it mattered what the kind of people I know think of anybody! And now I’ve marooned myself in this dreadful place and I’ll have to stay till Bob comes—we can’t go chasing each other across the country like this. And that miserable Scott man knows why I came! Well, I can snub him, anyhow.”

Polly planted both feet firmly on the floor and reached for her stockings. A few minutes later she stood in the doorway, a dark sweater drawn over her lacy waist, her plaid skirt blowing in the breeze, and her vivid hair covered only with a net. The air was cool and bracing, the sun just beginning to be a bit warm, the mountains emerging from behind fleecy clouds, and the sky as blue as that of Italy.

“Not bad, eh?” Hard stopped beside her, thinking how her splendid youth and vibrant coloring harmonized with the surroundings.

“Not bad at all,” laughed the girl. “You only need a few wild looking Mexicans prowling about to give a touch of life.”

Hard pointed toward the mine. Some dark-skinned men wearing big straw sombreros were running a hand car up the track while another group lounged in a doorway.

“There are your Mexicans, but I’m afraid they’re too lazy to be very wild. Nothing but a revolution excites them these days and sometimes I think they’re getting a bit blasÉ over them. Now and then they wake up over a cock-fight.” They walked down the street toward the boarding-house.

“I wish, Mr. Hard, that you would tell me something about the young man who drove me over last night,” the girl said.

“Who? Scotty?”

“No,” a little indignantly. “I mean SeÑor Pachuca. Oh, I forgot that I hadn’t told you!”

“Scott told me. He and I thought, if you don’t mind, that we wouldn’t say anything about it before the others. I mean about his being in the neighborhood.”

“I won’t if you don’t want me to,” replied Polly, with unusual docility. “But please tell me about him. Mr. Scott didn’t seem to want to.”

“Well, no, Scotty didn’t want to frighten you, I suppose.”

“Frighten me? As if I was that kind of girl!”

“It’s just a little difficult these days to know what one may or may not tell a young lady,” smiled Hard. “But about Johnny Pachuca. A good many people call him ‘Don Juan’—I don’t know whether it’s because he claims to be of pure Spanish blood, or whether it’s a subtle recognition of his popularity with the ladies.”

“Oh!”

“A few years ago, he was a captain or a colonel or something equally fancy in the army. He’s a dashing young scamp, and he had the good luck or the bad luck whatever you want to call it to engage the affections of a good-looking young actress who was supposed to be bestowing those affections on a man higher up. Naturally, the man higher up looked about for a way of getting even. He dug up a scandal about some army funds. Young Pachuca had been doing what seems to have been the usual thing down in Mexico City—padding his accounts—so they got him.

“Not that they couldn’t have got anybody on the staff on the same charge; but they were after Juan. Juan had to choose between retiring to private life or turning bandit. Having a taste for action, he did the latter.”

“Do you mean like Villa?”

“Well, no, Villa’s in a class by himself. You can’t call a man who has controlled a state and who has dictated to presidents, a bandit, can you? He’s on too big a scale. Pachuca took up banditry, in a gentlemanly sort of way; at least they say he did; nobody’s proved it on him. He was undoubtedly with Villa at one time. He was with him when he stopped here and nabbed our horses. I was away at the time. I’ve never seen the fellow. Then, gossip says, they quarreled and Pachuca went back to his people in the South. I haven’t a doubt, however, that if another revolution should break out, Johnny would climb into the band-wagon against the government and land in the army again.”

“And that’s the man I undertook to drive alone in the dark with!” gasped the girl. “Mr. Hard, promise me you’ll never tell Bob?”

“I promise,” replied Hard, laughing. “And here we are at breakfast. Miss Street, this is Mr. Williams, who runs our store, Mr. Adams, of the office force——” and so on until each had very consciously greeted the newcomer. Scott, who sat at the end of the table, looked up and bowed, receiving a cool little response. He returned unconcerned to his ham and eggs. If the new arrival was going to be disagreeable, he would keep out of her way.

Breakfast went off pleasantly. The food was excellent and with the exception of Scott, who kept his distance, everyone was quite evidently trying to put the girl at her ease. From the train crew, who announced their intention of running over to Conejo for her trunk, to Adams who spoke for the privilege of taking her over the plant, and Williams, who begged for an early opportunity to show his collection of baskets and pottery, each had something to offer. Even the black-eyed Dolores peeped admiringly through the hole in the wall, gathering items about the visitor to retail to the eager ears of relatives and friends at the next baile.

After breakfast, Adams piloted Polly over the premises, from the corral to the office. He showed her the automobile lying idle because an important part was broken and the new one though ordered from the factory had not come.

“I hope you ride?” he said, and as she nodded: “that’s good. Maybe we can get up a party to ride across the mesa to Casa Grande. That’s Herrick’s place.”

“Herrick?”

“Yes. Queer chap—part German and part English. Artistic, you know—plays the piano and sings.”

“What’s he doing here if he’s an artist?” demanded Polly.

“Runs a ranch and writes music. His wife died suddenly—she used to travel around with him and sing his songs—they made a pile of money, I guess.”

“You don’t mean Victor Herrick!” gasped the girl.

“Yes, that’s him. He went to pieces when she died and packed up his piano and his music and came down here and buried himself on the ranch. Queer customer, but you’ll like him.”

“And to think that Bob Street never wrote me that Victor Herrick was a neighbor of his—and then wrote pages of stuff about those old Morgans!” said Polly, indignantly. “Why, I’ve heard the Herricks sing—they were wonderful! Men haven’t any sense.”

“Oh, well, he likes the Morgans. She’s a jolly kind of woman, invites a fellow to dinner and feeds him up, you know,” said Jimmy, seriously. “They’re real folks, the Morgans are, and Herrick’s a sort of a nut, don’t you see?” He threw open the door of the office abruptly. “Here’s the office, where the manager sits with his feet on the desk while the rest of us work.”

Scott, who was standing by the window, turned suddenly.

“Hullo, Jimmy,” he said, with a grin. “Do you know whether Johnson’s gone yet? Well, go over and tell him to drop in at Mrs. Morgan’s and tell her that the young lady got here safely; I can’t get Conejo on the wire.”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Adams, please do!” said the girl, eagerly. “She meant to be awfully kind but she was worried to death about those children. I was too tired to have any patience and I felt as if I just had to get away from Conejo.”

“You’re not the first person who’s been struck that way,” grinned Adams, as he left the office.

“Hard tells me he has been talking to you about Juan Pachuca,” said Scott, smiling.

“Well, you wouldn’t, so I had to ask somebody else,” replied Polly. “I’m interested in him.”

“So I noticed. Can’t you pick out something a little more like home-folks to be interested in? Remember the fellow who tried to bring up the tiger cub?”

“What happened to him?” Polly smiled up into Scott’s face. There was something about Scotty that appealed to you even when you were actively engaged in disliking him.

“It grew up and bit him.”

“Oh, and Juan Pachuca seemed so nice and friendly. But I suppose a tiger cub feels soft and furry when it isn’t scratching or biting.”

“Exactly. You can’t tell about these fellows down here. Maybe Pachuca would have brought you over here safe and sound, and maybe he would have taken the south fork of the road down yonder and carried you off to his ranch to hold for a ransom.”

“Oh,” said Polly, faintly, “what a dreadful country!”

“Well, it’s no place for tenderfeet. That’s what I’m always telling our neighbor—Herrick, over at Casa Grande. Bob ever write you about him?”

“Bob never writes me about anything—except Emma,” said the girl. “But Mr. Adams has been telling me about him. Does he live there all alone?”

“No, he’s got a Chinese boy to cook for him and a lot of greasers working on the place, but no white men around.”

“I wish I could meet him.”

“You can. I’ll drive you over there any time you say.”

Polly’s face hardened. “I won’t bother you,” she said. “I don’t know how long I’ll stay here. I want to telegraph Bob.”

“I told Johnson to wire him from Conejo,” said Scott, a bit coolly on his side. “He may bring the return message back with him to-night.”

Polly felt suddenly ashamed of herself. She rose and held out her hand.

“That was awfully thoughtful of you, Mr. Scott,” she said. “I’m ever and ever so much obliged to you, both for that and for last night. I suppose if it hadn’t been for you SeÑor Pachuca might have been sending pieces of my fingers to Bob for a ransom.”

Scott laughed but he took the hand awkwardly.

“I don’t think Pachuca would do anything quite as raw as that—especially with a lady,” he said. “But I’m glad I went just the same. I don’t take chances with these chaps. Shall we walk down to dinner? Mrs. Van gets pretty peeved if we’re late to meals.”