Polly stood where Scott left her, gazing after him with a mixture of horror and excitement; horror at the thought that one of the terrible raids of which she had so often heard was taking place scarce two hundred yards from where she stood, and excitement because she was there—she, Polly Street, who had so far in her life never met with any adventure more thrilling than a punctured tire or a lost golf match.

Then, suddenly, it dawned upon her that Scott had left her his only weapon; had gone empty-handed into the trouble! The thought carried a double meaning. He had told her that she was safe, but he had left her his gun. Then there was danger—the Mexicans might come and find her; secondly, he had gone unarmed for her sake. He, the indifferent, the uncaring, the man who didn’t mind whether she smiled on him or snubbed him! Was it only because she was a girl and he a man, or did he, after all, care a little bit?

She had threatened, boastingly, to make him care, but she realized that she was beginning to care a little herself; that she could not stay quietly in the arroyo without knowing what was happening to him; that she must see and hear no matter what the risk.

She looked about her in some perplexity. She had been told that a western horse would stand contentedly if his reins were thrown over his head; but she doubted the universal truth of this statement.

“They might if there was grass for them to nibble,” she decided. “But they never would in this hole. Come on, ponies, let’s see what we can do.” And gathering up the reins she led the horses in the direction Scott had gone. She saw the place where he had scrambled out of the arroyo, and, oh, good luck, a clump of mesquite growing out of the crumbling wall further down. She fastened the bridle reins to the mesquite and left the horses contentedly chewing at it.

Very cautiously she crept up the incline and took a peek at the situation. She was just in time to see Scott disappear into the cabin where Adams lay wounded. Polly’s face fell. That didn’t look very heroic—crawling in by the back door! No wonder he didn’t want her to see him. Then she took another look. She saw the crowd down by the corral, catching and saddling unwilling horses. Women were hurrying in and out of cabins, dragging household goods and children with them.

The little crowd before the store she could not see as the building itself prevented, but she saw Pachuca with several of his men riding up and down, and she also saw several unmounted Mexicans who had been looting the store, carry the goods out and throw them in the car which stood at the side of the building. Instinctively the girl reconstructed the action of the bandits.

“A lot of them came on horseback and the rest in the car. They’re going to carry what they’ve taken in the car and they’re taking the horses for the extra men. Our Mexicans and their women are going with them and are helping themselves to whatever they want. But where are our men? I didn’t think they’d sit down and be plundered without putting up some kind of a fight.”

She saw the crowd which had been looting the store start for the corral. The car stood alone. Without doubt they had stopped it a little way from the street and made a dash on horseback. Polly’s eyes shone.

She glanced at the sun; it was going down rapidly. It would soon be dusk. She crept cautiously out of the arroyo. If only none of the men on horseback saw her she might manage it, wild as her plan was. She shook with fear but she did not falter; a girl does not have an obstinate chin for nothing. She glanced both ways; Pachuca was still riding up and down, issuing orders which were obeyed noisily but cheerfully. She saw him point toward the corral and saw the men who had been loading the car with plunder start toward the corral on a run.

“Going after more horses,” thought the girl, stopping and crouching back of one of the cabins. If they should see her—she held her breath. The next moment she was running for the car, still sheltered by the cabins. It was this moment that Scott chose to walk down the street and draw the attention of the raiders. Polly saw him and her heart warmed.

“I knew he wasn’t a coward!” she almost sobbed. “Oh, I’m glad—but he needn’t be such an idiot as that. He’ll be shot as sure as I’m here.”

Panic stricken, she increased her pace and in a minute had reached the shelter of the car. Then the shots burst upon her ears. She turned white and clung to the door of the car. If they had killed him! She saw Scott’s face as he had left her—friendly, ugly, determined—and she knew that if they had killed him nothing else would matter—anything might happen and she would not care. Mechanically, she opened the door of the car and hastily moved some of the plunder from the floor to the seat. The Mexicans had tossed in canned goods, blankets, rifles, a couple of cash boxes and even a box of victrola records. Then she crawled into the space she had made and seizing one of the blankets, drew it over herself and over a part of the loot, giving the tonneau of the car the appearance of being full of plunder which was protected from the dust by a blanket.

There was a clatter of hoofs and Polly heard Scott’s parting yell. It brought a glorious relief to her mind for surely no one who was badly hurt could be as mad as that! She heard the answering yells of the Mexicans, then she felt and heard the door of the car flung open; someone had jumped in and was starting the engine. Something struck her—a man had thrown his bundle into the car that he might take a howling youngster on his saddle. Polly’s teeth chattered with fear; she was realizing with every throb of the engine the awful risk she was taking.

Suddenly the car moved. Polly cowered in her uncomfortable position. Cold with terror she clutched the revolver Scott had given her. Suppose at the last minute some of the other men should decide to get into the car?

“But I won’t suppose! There wouldn’t have been any time to suppose if I’d gone to war to drive an ambulance. The boys didn’t suppose when they went over the top—they just went! I hope to goodness none of these guns I’m sitting on are loaded.”

The car bumped along on the rutty road and the noise of the riders died away.

“I knew it,” the girl said triumphantly. “I knew the horseback people would take to the trail as soon as they could, and the automobile can’t, of course. I’ve scored one point——”

The car stopped. Polly’s breathing apparatus stopped simultaneously. What was it? Had he seen her? Or was he about to pull the loot to pieces and discover her? She listened with her whole body, but heard nothing from the driver. Instead, came the detonation of the dynamited tracks. The ground beneath the car trembled. Then she heard the man laugh as he started the car again.

“They’ve blown up something! That sounds like Don Juan’s voice, too. If I could only see!”

The car soon moved at its former speed. On and on it went. Sometimes the road would be smooth, the driver having found wagon ruts and stayed in them. Again, it would be full of bumps and jars. It was very uncomfortable, her position being wretchedly cramped. Once she was startled to hear the driver break into song. It sounded like a Spanish love song and his voice was a lyric tenor and very musical. It was Pachuca! She determined to know what was going on.

Pushing aside a corner of the blanket she saw that it was beginning to grow dusky. Cautiously she raised herself until she could see. Pachuca was bent over the wheel. Looking back she saw the road empty of riders.

She looked ahead again. They were in the foothills already. Polly drew a long breath, then leaning over the back of the seat said desperately:

“SeÑor Pachuca, would you mind turning round a moment?”

If she had exploded the revolver in his ear, Pachuca could not have given a greater start.

“Madre di Dios!” he gasped, as the machine swerved.

“Please, do mind the wheel—that was an awful curve!”

“Where did you come from?” demanded the young man.

“I have been hidden among the stolen goods,” replied Polly. “I’ve heard a lot about you lately, seÑor, but I honestly didn’t believe you were a thief until I saw with my own eyes.”

Pachuca stopped the machine and turning glared at the girl, also at the weapon which she pointed with a very unsteady hand in his direction.

“If you’ll put that thing down I’ll try to explain to you the difference between stealing and requisitioning property in war times,” he said, angrily.

“If you’ll turn the car around you can explain all the way back to Athens,” said Polly, sharply. “I’m awfully tired and stiff and my hand is shaky—the man who gave me this gun told me it was ready to go off. I don’t want it to go off but if it does I can’t help it. Will you please turn around?”

“No, I won’t. The road is too narrow.”

“I’ve turned a Red Cross ambulance around in a lane no wider than this out near Fort Sheridan and I didn’t spill anybody either. You’re a better driver than I am.”

Pachuca shrugged his shoulders but he turned the car. There was an ugly look in his eyes and Polly clutched her weapon tightly. She tried to keep her voice steady but it quavered desperately.

“If you try to do anything mean—upset the car or anything like that, I’m going to fire—I certainly will—as sure as I’m red-headed.”

The car sped on. Suddenly Pachuca’s shoulders began to shake. He turned a laughing face toward Polly.

“You are so pretty and so disagreeable,” he said. “Are all Chicago ladies like you?”

“No. Some of them are not so pretty and are more agreeable,” replied the girl, nervously. “Please—you just missed that chuck-hole!”

“Why should I care? I do not want to go to Athens.”

“No, but you don’t want to go to Heaven, either, do you? Or—well, you know what I mean. I don’t know how much of a jar it would take to make this thing go off. A chuck-hole might do it.”

Pachuca, evidently depressed, relapsed into silence. It was growing colder and darker—would they never get there? However, she would not have been Polly had she kept still.

“SeÑor Pachuca, what did you mean by requisitioning goods? You aren’t working for the government, are you?”

“No.”

“Has another revolution broken out?”

“My dear young lady, Sonora has seceded and other states will follow. Mexico is about to throw off Carranza and his government. Is that clear?”

“Pretty clear—only I don’t understand why you should take our things.”

“I am raising a regiment. When it is complete I shall lead it into the field to fight for Mexico.”

“I see. That’s why you wanted our men?”

“A regiment means men, seÑorita.”

“And our blankets and money and guns and victrola records?”

“Why not? You Americans make your profit from us, why should you not share in our obligations? Did your generals spare the South when you had your Civil War? War is not a pretty thing, seÑorita.”

“They were at war with the South and they took——”

“Exactly. They took. An American has but one code of morals, and that is to take. I do not quarrel with it, I like it. I also take.”

Polly did not reply. She was tired and cold and she wanted to get home. Her hand was cramped and shaky—her threat had not been an idle one. She realized also that Pachuca for all his docility was only waiting the opportunity to turn the tables on her. He was a young man most fertile in expedients and it behooved her to be extremely vigilant. He would be quite capable of shooting up the wrong road and carrying her miles in a strange direction.

The thought made her feel panicky. She tried to remember the turns in the road, only to realize that she had not seen the road—she had been in the bottom of the car, her head covered with a blanket when she had traveled it so short a time ago. Everything looked ghostly and unreal to her in the half light, while Pachuca, she firmly believed, could see in the dark with those handsome eyes of his quite as well as any family cat out for a run.

“Go faster, please,” she said, sharply, for wherever they were going it might be as well to get there before dark. “It’s getting late and I’m cold.”

Obediently Pachuca swung into the next speed and the car bumped cheerfully along, the big lights casting a bewildering glare before them.

“If I only knew where we were and what he has up his sleeve!” the girl groaned inwardly. “I know he has something because he isn’t making any fuss. This road is rougher than it was when we came, too; he has taken a wrong turn—I know he has!”

Pachuca, apparently resigned to his fate, began to hum melodiously.

“SeÑor!” Polly’s voice was sharp with apprehension and weariness.

“SeÑorita?”

“We are on the wrong road; I am sure of it. Go back to the place where you left it.”

“With perfect willingness, dear lady, but where shall I go? The road leads to Athens. Is that not where we want to go—I mean where you want to go?”

“No—I don’t know—I think you’re tricking me. This isn’t the way we came. It doesn’t look to me like a road at all—I think you’re going over the open country. I——” The girl paused. It was disheartening—to go through so much and then to fail at last. She peered ahead into the dim light, trying to see what lay beyond the bright lights of the car. It did look like open country. Ahead lay a hill—a tall hill. Would Pachuca try to make it or would he climb around the side of it? Something—it looked like a man on horseback—was coming rapidly down the hill. Had she miscalculated and were some of Pachuca’s men still on the road? Perhaps the same thought struck the Mexican, for he slowed the car down and peered eagerly ahead. Polly clutched the revolver feverishly.

“If it’s one of your men and you stop—I shall fire!” she said, quickly.

Both stared into the dusk in silence. The rider came almost into the glare of the lamps.

“Stop!” cried the girl, loudly. “It’s Mr. Scott!”

The car stopped, the horse was drawn to his haunches, and Scott stared at the couple over his gun.

“Game’s up, Pachuca,” he said, shortly. “You’re my prisoner.”

“Oh!” cried Polly, jumping out of the car and running to Scott. “I knew he hadn’t killed you—but I wouldn’t ask him for fear he’d say he had! I knew——” She clutched his stirrup desperately.

Scott stared. “Well. I’m——!” he said, and reaching down he caught the swaying girl by the arm.

“I’m not going to faint—I never do,” she cried, clinging to his arm. “Don’t let him get away.”

“Keep him covered. He’s not going to get away.” Scott swung himself out of the saddle, wound the bridle reins around the pommel and gave the horse a clap which started him toward home. “Well, old man, I’ll take the gun, I reckon. Thanks. What’s up? Getting up a revolution?”

“He doesn’t have to; it’s already got up,” said Polly, as she climbed into her place again. “I hid in the car and made him come back,” she added. “But I was afraid we were off the road.”

“You were,” said Scott, briefly. “I saw your lights from the hilltop and came over this way. He was putting one over on you all right.” He tossed into the back of the car some of the stuff which was in his way and took the seat beside Pachuca who preserved a sullen silence. “Well, I guess we’ve had enough of this. Home, James!”

There was not much conversation. Pachuca was in a bad humor and confined his attention to the wheel, a precaution which the increasing darkness rendered highly prudent; Scott was intent upon watching the young Mexican, determined to have no tricks played upon him; while Polly, exhausted by the excitement of the past hour, crouched quietly in the crowded tonneau. A long way in the rear the patient pony trotted on his homeward way, wondering, no doubt, why things that moved on wheels could go so much faster than those traveling on plain, old-fashioned legs.

Out of the dark came a figure on horseback—as unexpectedly as Scott himself had done a few moments ago. Scott tightened his grasp on his revolver.

“If he’s a friend of yours, seÑor, I’m afraid you’ll have to go by without recognizing him,” he said.

“He is not,” replied Pachuca. “My friends are better horsemen than that.”

“It’s Tom,” laughed Scott, suddenly. “He’s come after me. Slow down, seÑor, if you please.”

Johnson, riding rapidly, swerved suddenly to one side as the big machine without lights came toward him.

“What the——” he began.

“Yes, it’s us,” said Scott, drily. “We’ve made a haul and we’re bringing it in. Suppose you wait for that horse of mine, will you, Tom, and see that he gets home all right? Thanks to this gentleman and his friends we’ve only got three head of cattle left, so we’d best be careful of them.”

“You bet,” responded Johnson, heartily. “How’d you do it, old man?” he asked.

“I didn’t, the lady in the case did it,” responded Scott. “She’ll tell you about it later. Whoop her up, will you, seÑor? It’s getting chilly around here.”