Not far from the Mexican border lies the town of Chula Vista, New Mexico. It is a small town, does not even boast of a railroad connection nearer than twenty-five or thirty miles, being, like Conejo, on a bi-weekly spur; but it is a town of reputation and a not altogether blameable civic pride.

It has borne its part in the border warfare with credit. It has slaughtered and been slaughtered, one might say, and rather enjoyed both proceedings. When, some years ago, a Mexican bandit raided Chula Vista and carried off a young woman, the citizens of the town organized an expedition, followed him across the line, and recovered the lady, none the worse for her experience; which proves not only that Chula Vista is a wide-awake town, but that some bandits are not as black as they are painted.

Chula Vista, on the afternoon when our party entered it, duly chaperoned by the aged Mendoza, presented an everyday appearance. The Chula Vista Trading Company was doing its usual business, and, as this was before the days of prohibition, several saloons were doing what they could to relieve a universal thirst. An ambitious building of brick, the new schoolhouse, witnessed the fact that culture was believed in, even pursued.

The other buildings were less imposing. There was the butcher’s place, a small adobe with a fenced-in yard. As Mendoza’s car drove past it, the butcher, with sanguinary intentions, was occupied in driving a wise and reluctant young steer around the yard. A little further along was the Roman Catholic Church—a Penitentes church, by the way, and the little house of Father Silva, who officiated. Further still was a long low building which had once been a livery stable, but which had been altered to meet the needs of a moving picture theatre, and the Commonwealth House, kept by Sam Penhallow, who varied the monotony of hotel keeping by exercising the duties of sheriff of the county. He it was who had crossed the line after the kidnapped young lady. The newspapers had featured him as a Texas Ranger, which he was not and never had been, but that was rather a near thing for a newspaper.

Penhallow was a tall, thin, brown-skinned man, who wore checked suits and who had the long drooping mustache which fiction assigns to the calling of a sheriff. Whether fiction is right in this particular, or whether Sam wore the mustache to conform with the best standards, is not important. He was sitting in a tilted chair, on the narrow strip of flooring which served the hotel as a veranda when Mendoza and his party wheezed into view.

Penhallow’s conventional welcome expanded into real warmth when he recognized Scott, who was well known in Chula Vista.

“Hullo,” he said, his hand outstretched. “If it ain’t Marc Scott! Drive you out down there, did they? Well, Mendoza—blamed if I didn’t think you was dead long ago! No, I don’t guess I know the ladies or your other friend, but any friend of Scott’s has got the keys of the city all right.” He turned and called into the house: “Mabel, come out here!”

“One of these ladies, Miss Street, is on her way to Chicago,” said Scott. Polly, restored to good looks by a few days rest and her prettiest lace blouse, beamed on Mr. Penhallow with the usual result. “Mrs. Conrad,” continued Scott, “is a friend of ours and is going back with the young lady. No, we weren’t driven out but things are rather bad down yonder.”

“Well, you ladies sure have courage, travelin’ round at this time,” said the admiring Penhallow. A tall pretty girl appeared in the doorway and was introduced as “my daughter, Mabel, who runs the ranch. Mabel, show these ladies the best rooms we’ve got. Give ’em the bridal soot if you can find it.”

Hard, suitcases in hand, followed the women into the hotel, while Mendoza steamed away to a haunt of his own. Scott sank into an armchair and settled himself for a talk with Penhallow.

“That young Street’s sister?” demanded the latter.

Scott nodded.

“I heard Bob Street had married a Douglas girl?”

“He did.” Scott explained the situation in regard to Polly. “Her people are anxious about her and wrote her to come back at once, so we’re carrying out instructions. The other folks——” Scott paused and surveyed the sheriff with an eye that twinkled. “Are you good at keeping secrets, Sam?” he said.

“Well, I have kept ’em,” replied Sam, modestly.

“Well, the lady is a widow, runs a ranch down South, and the tall chap is our chief engineer, a Boston man. They’re up here to get spliced before she goes East.”

“So! Well, no reason why they shouldn’t, I s’pose?”

“None that I know of.”

“I kind of had a hunch ’twas her and you when you got out of the car, Marc.”

“Me!”

“Yes. You needn’t blush. You ain’t too old to think of settlin’ down if you pick a woman that ain’t too young and giddy for you.”

“I’m not asking your advice on matrimony, you old fool, I’m asking if you’ve got anybody in this one-horse place who can marry folks legally,” said Marc, touchily.

“The judge could, I guess, but in a case like this there’d be more tone to it if you had the Padre. We haven’t got any Protestant fellow here just now,” replied Penhallow, meditatively.

“The Padre’s the boy. I’ll go over and interview him now.”

“You can’t. He’s to a christening at some Mexican’s up the creek. Won’t be home till late.”

“Well, morning’s as good a time as any, I reckon, for a wedding,” said Scott, philosophically. “We’ve got to stay over anyhow, to see the women off. Tomorrow’s your train day, ain’t it? Or have you changed your schedule?”

“No, we haven’t changed it,” replied Penhallow. “Only we don’t run on it much. We will to-morrow, though, because I’m sending a lot of hogs over.”

“That’s good. Say, what do they think up here of the revolution?”

“Which one?” with a chuckle.

“The new one. Looks like the real thing down yonder.”

“Well, of course, we were looking for trouble before the elections. We never expected the old man to keep his hands off the ballot box and everyone knows the man he put up—Bonillas—has got no show. It’ll be Obregon, I s’pose?”

“It’s hard to say. I was in Conejo a couple of days ago and they said Sinaloa had followed Sonora and a good many of the other states would fall in line in a few days. Obregon’s broken away from Mexico City—guess you heard that—and they’re talking of De la Huerta for provisional president.”

“Know him? De la Huerta?”

“I’ve seen him. He’s a young chap—some folks think he’s a radical—I don’t know.”

“Had any trouble at your place?”

Scott narrated the proceedings of Juan Pachuca at some length and with some heat. “A military guy over in Conejo told me that he’d had orders to clean up the state, so when Tom wised him up to the fact that Pachuca and Angel Gonzales were doping it up to meet somewhere around Pachuca’s place, he sent a troop of men down there, cut Angel off and smashed up the whole business.”

“Get their men?”

“Got Angel, but Pachuca slid out.”

“They let him probably.”

“Maybe so.”

“Framed it up for him so’s not to hurt the feelings of any of his high-toned friends.”

“Shouldn’t wonder. What time do you eat around here, Sam?”

“How’ll six suit you?”

“Suits me fine. I’ll go and break it to Hard that he can’t get married till morning. I suppose this Spanish chap won’t object to marryin’ a couple of Presbyterians? That’s what they say they are.”

“Gosh, no, the Padre’s a regular fellow,” replied Penhallow, easily. “You give him his fee and he ain’t going to raise no rows.”

The dining-room of Sam Penhallow’s hotel was a fair-sized room with one long dinner table and three small round ones. These latter were a concession to the habits of certain citizens who brought their sweethearts on the nights that Sam served chicken suppers and who were partial to parties carrÉs. It was to one of these small tables that Scott led his party. Altogether, thanks to the efforts of Mabel and her influence upon a certain invisible person whose identity changed often but who was always to be identified as the “help,” things were much better at the Commonwealth than one had a right to expect in a town the size of Chula Vista. Compared to Conejo, it was like entering into the promised land.

Mabel, herself, waited at table, and in the just opinion of most of the boarders, added fifty per cent, to the pleasure of the occasion. On this particular night the room was full and she had the assistance of a smiling young Mexican girl who waited on a company of her compatriots who sat at the farthest of the small tables. They had just ridden in—their horses could be seen outside at the rail. The back of the head of one of these gentlemen interested Polly immensely. There was something about it which reminded her strongly of Juan Pachuca.

“Do those Mexicans live in Chula Vista?” she asked Mabel, under cover of a laugh at one of Hard’s stories.

“No, they’re strangers,” replied the girl. “I think they come from a ranch out of town.”

Of course it couldn’t be Pachuca! He was in hiding somewhere down yonder, and yet—the party was on her mind and she noticed it as it broke up and the men passed out of the dining-room. She caught a side view of the suspected one—it was Pachuca, without a doubt. Whether he saw her or not she could not say but if he did he avoided showing it.

The girl’s first inclination was to call Scott’s attention to the Mexican; then she hesitated—it would mean trouble. There would be fighting and someone would be hurt. Scott’s back was toward them and he talked along quite innocent of the presence of Pachuca. While she hesitated the moment passed, the Mexicans were out of the room and she saw them mount their horses and ride off. Scott and Hard were still deep in argument. Whether Clara saw or not Polly could not tell.

“Marc,” Polly stopped beside him as they left the dining-room, “I’ve a nasty little headache—shall you mind if I go to bed?”

Scott, a bit surprised, replied in the negative and Polly went on, her hand on his arm coaxingly:

“Did you find out that the train goes to-morrow?”

“Yes.”

“Do I have to go on it?”

“There’s no other way that I know of for you to go home.”

“You won’t come with me?”

“I can’t leave the property when your brother’s away; you know that.”

“Well, I suppose you can’t. It’s very trying, isn’t it?”

“It’s not what I’d like.” Scott, in spite of himself, smiled down into the serious eyes.

“Well, if I were as big as you and didn’t like a thing, I’d change it, that’s all. Good-night.” She ran up the stairs.

Scott shrugged his shoulders and strode into the office of the hotel; the Commonwealth boasted no parlor—guests sat in the office or went to bed. Clara and Hard stood near the desk talking to Penhallow. Scott lit a cigarette and went outside. The narrow strip of veranda was vacant. He walked moodily up and down.

Of course, if she had a headache—but it seemed queer to leave a fellow so early on their last evening together for no one knew how long. Perhaps she wouldn’t come back after all and he would wish that he hadn’t given the old life a chance to call her and keep her. Then he thought of the parents—never having had any of his own as far as memory went, Scott felt their claims strongly. He wanted the girl; wanted her so badly that his whole being ached to take advantage of her youth and impulsiveness; to make the wedding in the morning a double one.

But Scott had not lived a hard life without learning to do without a thing if he chose to do without it; the thing might be a drink, it might be a horse, it might be a woman. Still, Polly might have stayed down and walked with him a while in the moonlight—it wasn’t much to ask. Hard and Clara had come out, the latter muffled in her long cloak, and were walking down Chula Vista’s main artery toward the Padre’s church. With a muttered exclamation, Scott dug his hands into his pockets and went inside.

“I suppose I can sit in the office and gab with Sam,” he growled, but Sam had disappeared. Scott picked up a newspaper and lit another cigarette. Suddenly, the door opened and Clara, visibly excited, appeared, followed by Hard.

“Mr. Scott, what do you think? We’ve just seen Juan Pachuca,” declared Clara.

“Sure enough? I suppose he could slide over the border if he wanted to. Where’d you see him?”

“He was one of those three Mexicans who had dinner at that other small table—so Clara says,” replied Hard.

“Your back was toward them,” went on Clara. “Henry’s never seen him, so of course he wouldn’t notice. I thought at the time that the man looked like Pachuca but I didn’t get a good view of him. We were going past that little saloon down near the church and they came out and rode off. He pretended not to see us.”

“Where’d they go?” demanded Scott, with the dryness in his tone which always appeared when Pachuca was mentioned.

“Out of town—past the church. I’m going up to tell Polly what she’s missed,” said Clara, as she ran up the narrow little stairway. “Girls have changed—not a doubt about it,” she thought, whimsically. “Fancy spending the last evening they have together moping upstairs with a headache! Wonder if anything’s gone wrong?”

A few moments later she was back in the office with the two men.

“I can’t find Polly,” she said, in alarm. “I’ve been to my room and to hers and she isn’t in either. Her hat and coat are gone, too.”

Scott came out of his chair with a bound. “I knew that devil was here for no good,” he said, starting for the door.

“Don’t be a fool, Marc Scott!” Clara’s voice was sharp and angry. “We saw Pachuca and those two men go off on horseback. He hasn’t carried off Polly!”

“I didn’t say he’d carried her off,” said Scott, doggedly. “She sat where she could see him at dinner. You saw him—so did she—and he saw her. This riding off is a blind——”

“You’re going to be terribly ashamed of yourself for what you’re saying. I know that girl. She wouldn’t do a thing like that any more than I would. I’m going to see Mabel Penhallow and find out what she knows about it,” said Clara, angrily.

“I’m going to find that boy and choke the life out of him. Get out of my way, Hard.”

“Look here, Scotty, that’s not the way to handle this affair,” remonstrated Hard, barring Scott’s progress toward the door and speaking with a warmth unusual to him. “Let’s get hold of Penhallow and tell him that Pachuca’s over on this side——”

“I don’t need a sheriff to handle my affairs.”

“This isn’t your affair, it’s the Government’s. If this chap’s got the nerve to think he can come over here after the way he’s acted with American property it’s up to the Government to put him right.”

“I can’t find Mabel.” Clara had returned, her face worried. “The Mexican girl said she saw an automobile go by a quarter of an hour ago and that Polly was in it. A Mexican was driving and she thought there was another man in the car. Marc, he has kidnapped her!”

But Scott had burst out of the room, followed by Hard. Clara, pale and frightened, watched them from the window. Scott’s blood was boiling. At first, stung with a sense of injury at Polly’s treatment of him, he had leaped to the jealous conclusion that she had seen and communicated with Pachuca. Scott was not a model lover. He was not of the type which believes always until convinced by proof. He was a hot-blooded, jealous, none too good tempered man, who lost his head very easily when he believed himself ill-treated. Now that he was beginning to realize that the affair might have a different complexion—that the girl had perhaps been overpowered and carried off—he was furious in another way, this time against Pachuca and against himself.

Mendoza had left his car outside his favorite saloon but the car was gone and so was Mendoza.

“I thought I could trust that old greaser but I guess I was wrong,” groaned Scott. “We’ll get horses from the stable, Hard, and perhaps they’ll know something about it there.”

Investigation revealed the fact that Mendoza had succeeded in getting his car out of town without attracting the attention of anyone but his dish-washing compatriot. When it leaked out that there was a kidnapping involved, the chivalrous instincts of Chula Vista were aroused. Horses were eagerly offered and a posse was to be formed as soon as Sam Penhallow could be located. Unfortunately, the only machine in town, owned by the sheriff, had been loaned that morning to Ed Merriam who had driven it over to the railroad junction. In an incredibly short time, Scott and Hard were clattering down the road which the three Mexicans had taken half an hour before.

“It’s useless, of course,” grunted Scott “They’ll meet the car and shake the horses before we can get to them; but, by God, Hard, I’ll get that boy if I have to comb New Mexico for him.”

Hard was trying to be optimistic, but on a strange horse and with a lame knee, optimism came with difficulty. “I may be wrong, Scott,” he said, between jolts; “but Pachuca doesn’t seem to me to be just that kind of a scamp. He’d elope with your wife in a second if she gave him an opportunity, but I can’t seem to see him carrying off your sweetheart against her will. There is such a thing as type, you know.”

“In Boston, maybe. Out here a man’s decent or he ain’t,” growled the other.

Hard relapsed into reflection. The road they were traveling forked at about a mile out of town. Ahead of them, it continued on the flat; to their left it became narrower and wound toward the foothills, remaining, however, a road possible for a car or a wagon.

“Which?” queried Hard, looking ahead as the fork became visible.

“The left,” replied Scott. “They’ll hit out for the hills. The other road goes along the railroad tracks.”

“I don’t think so,” muttered Hard. “I think they’ll stick to a good road.” But Scott had spurred his horse. Hard followed him a moment in silence, then he called: “Scott, I hear a machine! By Jove, I see it—it’s coming toward us, down the main road.”

Scott pulled up his horse. They peered into the dusk ahead of them. The car was coming toward them.

“You brought a gun, I suppose?” he asked.

Hard nodded. “What do we do?”

“Hold ’em up.” They pulled their horses down to a walk. “No headlights,” observed Scott. “We’ll keep this side of that little rise. If they haven’t seen us, they won’t see us till they’re on us.”

“We don’t shoot, I trust, until we know who they are,” suggested Hard, mildly. “It strikes me they’re going the wrong way for our men.”

“They may be going to turn at the fork. If it’s not them, it’s someone who can tell us if the Mexicans have gone this way.”

The car, a small one, pulled up the hill and started down toward Chula Vista. Scott rode into the middle of the road.

“Stop!” he called, authoritatively. The car stopped. It was driven by a fat man who was its only occupant.

“What’s the matter with you fools?” he demanded, angrily. “Don’t you know this here’s the sheriff’s car?”

Scott lowered his gun. “That so?” he said. “Then I suppose you’ll be Ed Merriam?”

“What business of yours is it?” replied Merriam, disgustedly, though apparently relieved at the removal of the weapon. Hard rode up quickly.

“Nothing, only we’re out after a bunch of Mexicans who have kidnapped a young lady,” he explained. “We thought we had them.”

“See anything of a Ford car up the road?” demanded Scott.

“No. Say, who——”

“Or any Mexicans on horseback?”

“No. But——”

Scott turned to Hard. “I told you they’d taken the other road.”

“Look here,” demanded the fat man, excitedly. “Is this an honest-to-gosh kidnapping? I say, it ain’t Mabel Penhallow?”

“No, it ain’t,” grunted Scott. “Will you loan us that car for a couple of hours?”

“You bet—pile in. Say, you boys give me an awful start. I’m going to marry that girl.” Merriam wiped his brow in relief.

“And I’m going to marry the girl those brutes have carried off,” replied Scott, dismounting and turning his horse loose. Hard followed his example.

“Well, why didn’t you say so at first?” demanded Merriam, as they got into the car. “Man’s a gabby animal, ain’t he? Which way’d they go?”

“Up in the hills, we think,” replied Hard.

“It ain’t much of a road,” said the driver, doubtfully. “Still, if they can make it with one car we can with another, I reckon. Goes up Wildcat Canyon after a bit; nobody living up there since that old Mexican died. Say, d’you suppose they’d take her up to that old cabin? Gosh, we’d better hit it up!”

There was silence in the rear of the car. The two men saw in imagination the helpless girl and the tiny remote cabin. Scott leaned forward, devouring the road with despairing eyes. Hard sat beside him, quiet except when he answered Merriam’s questions, sparing Scott, whose impatience and irritation made speech unendurable.

The new road led directly into the foothills. It was narrow and very rough. The travelers were shaken about like marbles in a boy’s pocket. Wildcat Canyon, into which the road ran, was of a real loneliness—a loneliness that penetrated one’s consciousness like an odor or a sound. On either side the foothills rose, dark and forbidding; to the left of the road a deep arroyo ran; on the other, the slope of the hill rose gradually to the sky line. Ahead, the hills seemed to come together as the road became narrower and wound in and out, becoming finally a trail. There was no trace of habitation to be seen, though here and there a few range cattle wandered.

“Cabin’s about two miles up the canyon,” volunteered Merriam. “Can’t see it from here, the road winds too much.”

Scott interrupted him suddenly. “There they are!” he cried, pointing up the road. Three horsemen were riding rapidly in the same direction with the car.

“She’s not with them, Scott,” Hard said, thankfully.

Scott did not answer. In his mind, he still saw the auto with the girl in it, going toward the cabin up the canyon. Well, at all events, Juan Pachuca would not reach that cabin alive! Merriam threw the car into its full speed.

“They’ve piped us—see ’em cross the arroyo,” he said. It was true. The three riders had plunged into the depths of the arroyo and were out on the other side. They did not seem to be running away, but kept to the rapid trot which they had been riding.

“Don’t know who we are and aiming to give us the idea that they’re out for a little moonlight ride,” remarked Merriam. “This car can go, can’t she? Sam’d sure be sore if he knew I was runnin’ her like this. Why don’t we beat it up to the cabin and get the girl and let them mosey along by themselves?”

“Because we don’t know that’s where they’ve taken her,” said Scott, angrily. He concluded that Merriam had guessed right. Pachuca had no particular reason to believe that the car held his enemies, or even that Scott and Hard knew him guilty of Polly’s disappearance. They would safeguard themselves by riding on the other side of the arroyo but they evidently did not intend to be scared out of their road to any further extent.

The car was rapidly catching up with the riders and soon things must come to a showdown. Scott fingered his gun lovingly.

“Hey, you guys, where you heading for?” demanded Merriam, loudly, as the car came almost abreast of the three. They turned as the machine slowed down to their pace. Before they could answer, Scott was out of the car and had them covered.

“Pachuca, it’s no use—we’ve got you,” he called. “Hands up!”

The two Mexicans who evidently understood little English, though the magic words, “hands up,” probably penetrated their darkness, glanced at Pachuca for orders. The latter turned his horse and rode to the edge of the arroyo. He was his usual jaunty self, a little travel worn, but not dulled.

“SeÑor Scott?” he asked, peering through the dusk. “What do you want?”

Scott paused for a moment, daunted by the other’s impudence.

“We want you, Pachuca,” said Hard, peremptorily. “Come quietly and don’t force us to use our guns—we don’t want to.”

Pachuca slid gracefully from his horse and took a few steps nearer the edge. “What’s the trouble?” he demanded. “I won’t come over till I know what you want. We’ve got our guns, too.”

“He’s a cool one!” murmured Merriam, admiringly. While Pachuca had drawn the attention of the Americans by his sudden move in their direction, his two friends had ridden up behind him and stood with their guns ready for action. It looked like a deadlock. Scott dropped his gun to his side.

“All right, put up your guns,” he said, his voice dangerously calm. “We’ll talk it over.”

The Mexicans got the idea if not the words and lowered their weapons.

“You know what I want you for,” Scott went on, angrily. “Where is she?”

“She?” Pachuca’s assumption of ignorance was masterly. It almost convinced Hard. “Who do you mean?”

“I mean Miss Street. You’ve kidnapped her or else your friends in Mendoza’s car have and you’re on your way to join them. We want to know where. Come, you can’t get away with it.”

“I’ve not seen the girl since that night at Athens—yes, I saw her to-night for a moment but I did not speak to her. I am here on business of my own with these gentlemen. If you have an officer of the law with you I’ll show him my papers. If you haven’t, I’ll go on. If you shoot, we’ll shoot.”

“Anyone would think he had papers,” murmured Hard to Merriam.

“Well, mebbe he has. They ain’t so hard to get. What I want to know is how are we going to get him into the car?”

Scott tried to swallow his desire to choke the slim youth on the other side. “Come, Pachuca,” he said, “this won’t get you anywhere. Either tell us where the girl is and go your way, or come over here and fight it out.”

“I don’t know where she is. As for fighting—well, if I kill you what do I get out of it? Also, you might quite possibly kill me.”

“If I only knew she was in the cabin, he could go and welcome,” was rushing through Scott’s brain. “But I don’t and I mustn’t let him get away.”

Suddenly, a sound broke upon their ears—the sound of an automobile. It was coming down the canyon and coming fast. Merriam seized his horn.

“We can’t have ’em coming down on us in this narrow place!” he cried, honking furiously. The other car answered. The Mexicans turned at the sound and Pachuca, casting a hurried glance at them over his shoulder, reached for his bridle. Scott raised his gun instantly.

“You stay where you are!” he yelled. “If those are your people we’ll get the lot of you; if they’re not we’ve got you, anyhow, sabe?”

Pachuca gave one look at Scott and another at his flying friends. Then he threw himself upon his horse’s back, thrust the spur in deep, and as the horse reared, drew his gun. His shot and Scott’s rang out together as they had done once before in front of the store at Athens—but with a different result. Pachuca reeled, recovered, spurred the horse again and tore off in the direction taken by the flying Mexicans; Scott stood looking furiously at him for a moment then staggered to the machine.

“He got me, Henry,” he muttered, as he toppled over. “Look after the girl.”

And the other machine came rumbling on through the dusk.