There was a great stillness about the place; the whole panorama suggested a picture rather than an actuality, except for the white clouds sailing slowly about in the blue sky, and an occasional bird flying from one tree or bush to another.

“I don’t like things being so still,” said Scott. “Let’s push on.” Riding around to the front of the house—a long, narrow, adobe building, they came upon the first real sign of habitation; a brown hen, who, accompanied by her family, was scratching around the walk with an immense show of industry; while on the veranda sat two men. One was a white man; the other, a Chinese, dressed in the dark blue shirt and trousers of his people. As the newcomers dismounted, the white man came forward.

“Humph, it’s you!” he remarked, with evident relief. “Well, here is what is left of a once prosperous household.”

He was a little man, thin and wiry, with bushy brown hair and beard, and keen dark eyes. His hands, slender and with long white fingers, played nervously with a quirt which he held, apparently for no purpose than that those nervous members might have occupation.

“What’s happened?” demanded Scott. “How do, Li Yow?” as the Chinaman came forward smilingly to take the horses.

“All gone,” he said, blandly. “Laided. One hen, some shickens—notting else left.”

“Raided! Did that young rascal——” began Hard, when Herrick interrupted impatiently.

“Oh, he has been to you, too? He makes a clean sweep of it! He comes here at noon with a score, perhaps, of men; and if there is anything they do not take, it is because it is broken—like my wagon. Men, money, and stock—our neighbor is thorough and no mistake!”

“I was afraid of it,” said Scott. “He’s cleaning up the community. Herrick, I want you to know Bob Street’s sister, Miss Polly Street.” He added a few words of explanation of the girl’s presence. Herrick surveyed her with interest.

“You are unlucky to strike this country at such a time,” he said. “Unless you like experiences?”

“I do,” said Polly, promptly. “That’s why they’re sending me home.”

The little man smiled. “After all, most experience is worth while,” he said. “Sit down and rest—you will stay, all of you, won’t you? For the night? There is some food left.”

Scott and Li Yow walked away with the horses to the barn which stood not a great way from the house, surrounded by a good-sized corral. Polly sank into an easy chair which commanded through a window a view of a part of the living-room. She caught a glimpse of a grand piano, bright colored rugs, bookcases overflowing with books, and other evidences of comfort. Hard gave their host an account of the Athens hold-up, not forgetting the part Polly had played in it.

“I remembered,” he said, “that Li was a doctor, and thought perhaps you’d loan him to us for Jimmy. We don’t think much of the Conejo medico.”

“Himmel, no!” responded Herrick, quickly. “You shall have Li, of course.”

Polly leaned back with a little sigh of content. Herrick smiled.

“You are tired,” he said, “and by and by you will be chilly. Henry, as Li is busy, suppose you build up a fire in the living-room?”

Polly looked a bit surprised, but Hard laughed as he went into the house.

“Herrick never does any rough work,” he said, indulgently. “He has to take care of his hands.”

“So!” replied their host, “my fingers are my good friends, consequently I take good care of them. Why not? Some day I may need their services again.”

“I hope so,” said Polly, frankly. “I think it’s rather dreadful for an artist to bury himself in a place like this.”

“One does not bury oneself, my child, one rests and creates,” said the musician, gently. “Ah, here is Scott! He has been looking at my wagon.”

Scott tossed Polly her long cloak which she had left on her saddle.

“Yes, I took a look at the wagon, while Li turned the horses out,” he said. “I think I can patch it up so that we can drive to Athens in it. You see, Herrick, we’ve only got three horses and I have to send Li back on one of them to-night.”

“Can he make it—the horse?”

“With a little rest and a feed—if Li takes it easy. Of course, it’s not the way I like to treat my horses, but Jimmy’s leg is in a bad state.”

“Very well. You may have Li and also the wagon,” replied Herrick. “The more willingly because I have a favor to ask of you.”

“Of course. What is it?”

“I have a guest,” said the other, slowly. “A lady, from the South. She has had to leave her plantation and is on her way back to the United States. I had intended taking her to the border, but since you are sending this young lady——” He stopped, and Polly thought she saw a look of understanding pass between them.

“We’ll see her through, of course,” said Scott, readily. “Can she be ready to go in the morning?”

“I should think so,” replied the little man; “we will ask her.” To Polly’s disappointment, the talk passed on to the revolution and other political subjects, and nothing more was said about the mysterious guest. “If they’re going to tack a Mexican refugee to me, they might at least tell me something about her!” she thought.

In the meantime, Hard had entered the living-room and was examining the contents of the wood-box.

“Empty, of course!” he said, with a smile. “The household is quite evidently off its balance.” He went out through the kitchen and returned in a few minutes with a basket of logs from the wood-pile. As he re-entered the living-room, a woman—a tall, slender, graceful woman, with black hair and eyes, entered it from the hall. There was a moment’s silence and then the basket of wood dropped crashingly from Hard’s arms. The woman smiled.

“Henry!” she exclaimed, coming forward, both hands outstretched. “Henry! I heard your voice—I’d have known it anywhere, even if Victor hadn’t told me that you lived near here. You haven’t changed one bit in—how many years is it since I saw you?”

“Fifteen years, six months, and twenty-seven days, Clara,” replied the tall Bostonian, taking her hands and leading her to the light. Something in her easy, friendly manner had softened both the shock of the surprise and the embarrassment of the situation. He looked long into her face and then dropped her hands. She sank into a chair by the fireplace.

“It is a long time, isn’t it?” she said, smiling.

“No one would think so to look at you,” said Hard, sincerely. “You are the same Clara Mallory who went to Paris fifteen years ago to study music.” He picked up the basket of wood and proceeded to build the fire. She watched him, her eyes misty.

“Well, it’s odd that I haven’t changed for I’ve been through a lot,” she said, with a little smile. “And you?”

“Just the same easy-going, good-for-nothing chap, I reckon,” replied Hard.

“But this mining business? But, of course, you were educated for it at the Tech——”

“Yes, without much idea of using it.”

“But, being a Hard, you weren’t contented with doing nothing,” said Mrs. Conrad. “You know why I’m here, I suppose?”

“No. Herrick told me some time ago that you were living down near Mexico City—and that Dick Conrad had died, and how.”

Mrs. Conrad was silent for a moment. “Two years ago,” she said, quietly. “While he lived, we managed to hold down the plantation fairly well. He got on well with the government, and he organized the peons and fought off the bandits. Since then, things have gone rather badly; it takes a man to handle that kind of a situation. I’ve been raided six times in two years and my patience is almost gone.

“I wrote up here to Victor; he’s always been a good friend of mine—I studied with him in London, you know, and knew his wife well. He advised me to sell and go home. I didn’t take his advice about selling; I couldn’t get anything decent for the place right now, and I’ve a fairly good man running it for me. I have faith in this country and I intend to come back some day and go on with my plantation.”

“You always were plucky, Clara.” Hard touched a match to his fire. “But Mexico’s no place for you. Where are you going?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Clara, frankly. “Back to the States, of course, but where and for what I don’t know. But I hope—my music.”

“Your music?”

“Victor says it’s not too late—but—well, perhaps. I’m out of the way of cities, and I’ve enough so that I don’t have to do anything, but—oh, I would love to be at it again!”

Hard smiled. “You will, Clara. You’re not an idler—as I am. You’ll be in the thick of it in no time.”

“Ah, you have found one another! I thought perhaps you would.” Herrick’s voice broke in upon their talk. He was followed by Polly and Scott, and introductions and explanations came naturally.

“It’s not a Mexican refugee, and it is the lady of the photograph!” Polly said to herself, triumphantly. “But it doesn’t look to me much like a love affair. They’ve got over it evidently.”

“So you also were raided by Juan Pachuca?” said Mrs. Conrad, as Scott seated himself beside her. The latter nodded.

“I happened to hear him talking to one of my men,” said Herrick, “and telling him that he had a rendezvous with Angel Gonzales, somewhere in the vicinity—not too near, I hope. I don’t want Angel Gonzales on my place; I’d rather entertain the devil.”

“What a queer name—Angel! Who is he?” asked Polly, curiously. She was beginning to realize, since she had gotten off her horse and relaxed into the comfort of an easy chair near the fire, how very tired she was.

“A young ruffian with a price on his head,” replied Herrick. “He’s half Indian and half Mexican and they tell me that both halves are very bad indeed.”

“If Gonzales—by the way, Miss Polly, don’t mix him up with Pablo Gonzales who is a general of note and one of the candidates for the next presidency——” said Hard, laughing. “If Gonzales is trying to get in with the new party, he must have inside information that the revolution is going to be a success.”

“Well, its first work had better be to line Angel and a few more of his kind up against a wall and settle ’em with a firing squad,” said Scott.

“That’s what I think,” declared Mrs. Conrad. “I don’t put much faith in this regiment business. I think Pachuca has simply gone back to first principles and run amuck.”

“I don’t believe——” Polly stopped, consciously.

“Miss Polly thinks he’s a gentleman and that ends it,” said Scott, drily.

“She’s young, and the wretch has a way with him. I liked him myself when I was young and frivolous,” said Mrs. Conrad, cheerfully. “I’ve entertained him many a time in Mexico City. Suppose you go into my room, my dear, and have a nice rest and clean up while I go and help Li rustle us a dinner out of the remnants?” she continued, taking the girl by the hand.

“If Angel Gonzales is playing around this neighborhood, the sooner we get away the better,” said Scott to Hard as the three men were left together. “Come and cast your weather eye over the wagon. For a quiet part of the country, we seem to have struck a bad gait.”

It was nearly eight o’clock when they sat down to their dinner; a dinner contrived with Oriental thrift from materials scorned by the marauders.

“Give a Chinaman a handful of rice and a few vegetables and he’ll make you a feast, so my husband used to say,” remarked Mrs. Conrad. “You simply can’t starve them.”

“Li wants to start right after dinner,” said Scott.

“And ride all night?” asked Herrick.

“He says so. He says he knows the trail, and, of course, he’s got the moon.”

A little later, as they sat around the fire, they heard the sound of his horse’s feet on the stones and knew that the Chinaman had started.

Polly began to feel the charm of the quaint room, with its dim lighting, the low fire, the fantastic patterns of rug and basket showing faintly, and through the windows the mountains and the stars. As the conversation began to yield to the quiet of the place, Herrick went to the piano and played softly. It had never fallen to the lot of the girl to hear such music; the revelation of a man’s soul, poured out through an absolute mastery of the art. The little man, with the brown beard and the long nervous hands, sat hunched up in his low chair, knees crossed, eyes half closed, drawing from the keyboard the chords which carried to each one the message of his own heart.

Presently, Clara Conrad rose, and, standing back of the piano, leaning over it, her hands clasped, began to sing—softly and easily—her voice, a rich contralto, blending with Herrick’s small but exquisite baritone, in an old song. Polly looked at Hard, seated in a dim corner, his chin resting on his hand, his eyes fixed on the two at the piano. She wondered what he was thinking and what the woman meant to him. There was something almost too intimate about the whole scene and she was glad when Scott rose and went toward the door, speaking to her as he passed her.

“Want to see a pretty sight?” he said. She nodded and followed him out. For miles in front of them stretched the hilly country, dotted here and there in the half light by clumps of trees and bushes showing inky black in the night, while in the distance stretched the mountains, irregular, dark, and mysterious looking. Over all shone the moon, while the stars—but who can describe the stars in a desert country?

“Makes you feel like you’d never seen stars before, doesn’t it?” asked Scott, as the girl stood, drinking in the scene.

“Doesn’t it? So many, so bright and so twinkly! Do you know, I don’t wonder that Mrs. Conrad’s rather a wonderful woman—living all the time with this.”

“Well, she is, rather. She’s had a hard life, too; lots of trouble.”

“Wasn’t her husband—I mean, weren’t they happy together?” asked the girl.

“Why, yes, I guess they were,” replied Scott, cautiously. “I reckon they were like most married folks, rubbed along together pretty well.”

“But you said she’d had lots of trouble.”

Scott smiled. “And you made up your mind right off that it was a love affair, eh? You’re a good deal of a kid, aren’t you?”

Polly flushed. “I think you’re rather inconsiderate,” she said, crossly. “You start up my curiosity and then you make fun of me. I don’t think I like the way you treat me, most of the time.”

“I don’t think it’s fair, myself,” said Scott, penitently. “I suppose a girl brought up as you’ve been oughtn’t to be blamed for seeing a love affair behind every bush.”

“Why do you say brought up as I’ve been?”

“I mean having everything easy; everything done for you. No real hard knocks in life.”

“Oh, well, if that’s all, I’ll probably have hard knocks enough before I get through. Most people do, I’ve noticed,” replied Polly, easily. “I’ll probably marry somebody who’ll spend all his money and leave me eight children to support, or else I’ll die a rheumaticky old maid. Will that satisfy you?”

“Don’t talk that way,” said Scott, sharply. “It’s unlucky.”

“Unlucky? Are you superstitious?”

“No, but I’ve noticed that people who are always expecting bad luck usually get it. I’d hate to have you——” he stopped, and Polly caught a look in his eyes that startled her.

“Die a rheumaticky old maid?” she said, nervously. “Well, I don’t want to, either, but it seems to me that the number of people who get out of this world without a lot of trouble of some kind or other is a pretty small one, so you needn’t begrudge me a few years of easy going. What was Mrs. Conrad’s trouble?”

“She’s had a good deal of it first and last, but I was thinking of her husband’s death, two years ago.”

“Did you know her then?”

“Me? No, indeed, I never met her before to-night, but Hard told me, and so did Herrick. I don’t reckon Hard would mind my telling you her story, now you’ve met her. You see, he and she were young folks together in Boston. I guess they sort of played at being in love with each other, like young folks do. Then her father died, and left her with hardly anything, and that woke ’em up. It made things look more serious.

“Hard wanted to marry her, but she wouldn’t. She had a voice and she wanted a career; so she went to Europe. That’s where she met Herrick and took lessons of him. Then, suddenly, instead of going on the stage, she married one of those floating Englishmen. Met him in Paris, married him, and came over here with him.”

“Didn’t she care for Mr. Hard?”

“Well, it’s pretty hard sometimes to know who a woman does care for,” said Scott, candidly. “But if she did, she must have got over it. Or maybe she got tired of the singing business and took Conrad in a fit of the blues. I’ve known ’em to do that.”

“Men, I suppose, never marry for reasons of that sort!”

“Men? Lord, yes, men’ll do anything—most of ’em,” grinned Scott, cheerfully. “We’re a rum lot. Anyhow, Mrs. Conrad married her Englishman and came over to the coffee plantation with him. I guess they had some trouble like everybody else has had these last few years, but they managed to weather it. Then, about two years ago, they went on a hunting trip, up in the mountains, just the two of them and a Mexican boy. While they were there, Conrad shot himself while he was cleaning his gun.”

“Oh!”

“It was hopeless from the first and she knew it, but she stayed alone with him and sent the boy back to the ranch for a doctor. He died while they were there alone.”

Polly’s eyes had tears in them. She was staring wistfully at the mountains. “I’m trying to think what it would mean—being up there, alone, with someone you loved who was dying,” she said at last. “No wonder little things don’t bother a woman who’s been through a thing like that.”

“Yes, it’s those things that make character, I guess,” said Scott, thoughtfully. “Or break it.”

“Hasn’t Mr. Hard ever been down there to see her?”

“No, there’s a proud streak in Hard—or maybe he’s got over his feeling for her. He never would let her know he was in the country. I rather guess Herrick planned this.”

“I wonder? Oh, what is it? What do you see?” she cried, as she noticed that Scott’s attention was no longer on her, but was fastened upon the dark foothills which rose between them and the mountains.

“I don’t know; wish I had my glasses! Looks to me like fellows riding—do you see ’em? Over there, coming through that darkish spot between the foothills? Wonder if we’re in for another row?”

“No—yes, it is! Coming this way!”

“Go in and tell them to put out the lights and stop that noise quick!” Scott’s voice was hard and sharp. Polly darted into the house. Scott strained his eyes to watch the party of riders racking recklessly down the dark roadway from the hills. “It can’t be Pachuca!” he muttered. “He wouldn’t come back. It must be that damned young Angel. Well, I guess we’re in for trouble before daybreak.”

“What is it?” Hard was at his elbow. Scott turned and saw that the house was dark.

“It’s a bunch on horseback—see, over yonder? They’re making good time; they’ll be on us in half a minute. Where’s Herrick?”

“Getting the rifles. Where are the horses?”

“In the pasture, up by the river. They’ll not find them in a hurry.”

“Hadn’t we better have the women go up there, too?” said Hard, anxiously.

“I don’t believe so. If they’re bound for us, there’s no time. I think——”

“Mr. Scott,” Clara Conrad’s voice came softly from the dark doorway, “if that’s Angel Gonzales why can’t we all go——”

“I don’t know who it is, and the moon’s too strong out there—they’d spot you in a minute.”

“But we can’t sit here and do nothing!”

“You can do as you please.” Scott’s voice was ugly with the ugliness of strained nerves. “I say stick to shelter while you’ve got it.” He drew his revolver as he spoke and examined it.

“They’re coming fast.” Hard’s voice was tense. Herrick carrying three rifles came out.

“Get inside—everybody!” ordered Scott. The party had turned in from the road and were dashing toward them. Mrs. Conrad and Polly were already in the house. The men followed. “They ride like Indians, Hard; I believe it’s Yaquis on the warpath!” He and Hard stationed themselves at the open windows in the darkness. “I’m for waiting till they attack us; what do you think?”

“Yes. Let them make the first move.”

The intruders were at the gate. Now they swept in, a couple of score of them. They whirled and made for the barn.

“They’re Indians, all right,” whispered Scott. “They’re after the horses.”

The silence was complete for a few seconds, the women obediently crouching in the darkest corner scarcely seeming to breathe, Scott and Hard, hidden behind the light curtains, keeping their eyes fixed upon the swiftly moving figures outside, Herrick standing just within the doorway. Suddenly, cries broke the stillness. Two of the Yaquis who had entered the barn came out with the news. The yells were of rage.

“No horses!” grinned Scott. “Their feelings are hurt. Here’s where the play begins.”

“They’re firing the barn,” said Hard, grimly.

They were. It blazed like a child’s bonfire and the shouts and curses of the disappointed Yaquis rose with the flames.

In another moment the Indians had ridden toward the house. Polly, who in spite of orders, had crept toward the window saw them in amazement. Between the moon and the light of the blazing barn, they were distinctly visible.

“But they can’t be Indians!” she exclaimed, at Scott’s elbow. “They’re just like our Mexicans!”

“Did you expect them to wear scalp locks? Get out of range, quick! Hard, cover the second chap, there. I’m going to give the first boy a shock. They’ll be in here in half a minute if I don’t.”

His shot rang out and the bullet flew over the Indian’s head. It was close enough to make him pull his horse to its haunches while those behind him did the same.

“While I’m talking to him, you women slide out the back door,” muttered Scott, hurriedly. “Make for the stream and the horses while they’re watching us. Hello, out there, what do you want?” he said in Spanish.

Mrs. Conrad gripped Polly’s arm. “Come!” she said.

“We can’t!” demurred the girl. “We can’t leave them like this.”

“Come!” repeated Clara, angrily. “Do you want to fall into their hands?” Polly, too frightened by her tone to resist, crept softly behind her. They heard the Indian at whom Scott had fired answer. To Polly it meant nothing, but Clara’s ears, accustomed to the tongue, caught an angry demand for horses, food and money.

“We haven’t any of those things. We’ve just been raided—cleaned out—we’re as poor as you are,” was Scott’s reply. The Indians conferred together. “It’s a question of whether they think we’re lying or not,” said Scott, drily.

“Exactly. And they have unfortunately every reason to believe that a white man usually is,” replied Hard. “What’s the play if they come at us?”

“Shoot as many as we can,” said Scott. “They’ll do the rest. That’s why I sent the women off.”

“I thought so. Well, here goes. I ought to be able to get a couple before I cash in though I’m not considered very dangerous with firearms,” replied Hard, calmly, though his heart was registering something approaching acute blood pressure.

From the leader came in angry Spanish: “We don’t believe you! We’ll come and get it.”

“Come on!” yelled Herrick. Instantly, a dozen Yaquis were off their horses and running toward the house, shooting as they came. As instantly, two of the leaders fell in the path of the others.

“Good boy, Herrick!” cried Scott. “Let ’em have it again!” he yelled, as the Indians, halted for a moment by the fall of their men, came on again. The shots rang out again but this time no one fell. Hard felt something sing by him in the darkness and thanked God that the women were not there. Herrick rushed over for more cartridges.

“They’re coming!” he shouted, excitedly.

“Let ’em come. Some of ’em are coming to something they won’t like,” growled Scott. “Look out—in the doorway!”

Two Indians had burst their way into the house, but disconcerted by its utter darkness after the moonlight outside, paused a moment to get their bearings. Scott, Hard and Herrick shot with one accord. One Indian came on; the other uttered a cry of pain; then both dashed outside for the shelter of the veranda. There was silence; the Indians hesitating in doubt as to their companions’ fate, the white men uncertain as to what form the attack would take next.

“Are the women gone?” Herrick called softly.

“Yes,” replied Hard. “Are you all right?”

“So. They whistle through my hair but they do not touch me,” replied the musician, cheerfully.

“Here they come!” cried Scott, impatiently. “Watch your shots!”

The Indians were coming, and coming in a body.

“Gosh, it’s going to be all day with us in half a minute!” gasped Scott. “Let ’em have it as hard as you can, boys. We may be able to hold ’em long enough to give the women a chance to get the horses.”

Hard clenched his teeth and bent his eye on his rifle. In another moment the invaders would be upon them—when, sharp and decisive came the sound of shots; shots from among the foothills, followed by yells. There was a cry from the Indian who led the rush; a wavering of the line; and a stop. They broke into loud talk. In the meantime, the shots and yells continued. They seemed to come from two directions.

“There’s another crowd back in the hills. They’ve got another fight on their hands,” muttered Scott, listening. “It’s a flank attack and these fellows don’t like it.”

“If it is——”

“It is. Hear that!”

There were more yells; the Yaquis outside flung themselves into their saddles and in another moment the two wounded men lying near the windows were all that remained of the attack.

“By golly, I’ve heard of luck before, but this is a case of the pure and unadulterated article,” said Scott, awed.

Hard did not reply. He was taking a deep breath—the first in several minutes. Herrick whistled cheerfully.

“Unless it’s Angel Gonzales,” continued Scott, pensively. “In that case it’s a question of ‘Go it, old woman; go it, b’ar.’”

“Let’s go after the horses and the women,” said Hard. “The quicker we hit the trail for home the better my circulation’s going to be. I think the Hards must have deteriorated considerably since the battle of Lexington. I’m getting to be a regular old woman.”

Scott laughed. “You’re a pretty good pal in a fight, old man,” he said, simply. “I think you winged one of those birds outside. Shall we go and have a look?”

“Not I,” replied Hard, decidedly. “It’s unpleasant enough to me to kill a man without pawing him over afterward.”

Scott went outside and looked over the victims of the fight.

“Dead, both of them,” he said, briefly. “Come on, let’s get out of this before their friends come back.” And to the sounds of yells and shots in the distance they made their way toward the stream.