That Jimmy Adams survived the operation of probing to which he was subjected by Li Yow was to Tom Johnson evidence of an almost miraculous skill on the part of the Chinese doctor. Tom knew very little of operations. His life had been a normal one and the grisly sight which he was called upon to witness would have altogether unmanned him had it not been for Mrs. Van’s timely nip. As it was, he came out of the room extremely depressed.

Depression was a mood which in Tom Johnson usually led to action. In this case his first move was to visit Cochise. It did not brighten his outlook upon life. Cochise was in no state to travel, that was evident. He was tired and stiff and his back showed signs of soreness. Rest was undoubtedly what his case demanded.

“If you was a society dame, your doctor would send you to Miami for a month and say cut out all mental strain,” soliloquized the engineer, bathing the back gently. “Being as you’re a horse, the best we can do is to turn you out to pasture for a while. Well, I’m no fancy rider, God knows, but nobody can say I ever give a horse a sore back. That blanket was pretty nigh off your tail when he brought you in. Any white man would have stopped and fixed it.”

He sauntered back to his cabin and sat down to think. Tom was tall, over six feet, and very thin. His skin was brown and his straight black hair which he wore rather long, not because he liked it, but because he disliked the Conejo barber, gave him rather an Indian look. His clothes hung loosely on him, lending very little to his personal charm, and when he sat he usually sat on his spine, a practice deplored by beauty doctors. When O’Grady came along a few minutes later, he was deep in thought.

“Say, what do you think of this here business over at Casa Grande?” demanded the latter persistently. “Think the Doc’s lyin’?”

“Why should he? Besides, he was scared. He most put old Cochise out of commission. He saw something all right.”

“Think it was Pachuca?”

“No. Why should Pachuca come back after he’d cleaned ’em out once?”

“Yaquis?”

“Might be. And ag’in it might be the rebels.”

“Who is the rebels now? Johnny’s bunch?” asked O’Grady.

“Search me. I suppose this here state of Sonora is fighting the rest, but I don’t see that they’ve got any call to burn an Englishman’s property. This here Mrs. Conrad’s English, too, ain’t she?”

“No, she ain’t English, she’s good plain American, Came from Boston, same as Hard,” said O’Grady.

“Well, don’t an American woman lose her nationality when she marries a foreigner?” demanded Tom, wisely.

“She’d ought to if she marries an Englishman,” replied O’Grady, belligerently. “But don’t she get it back if he dies?”

“Hanged if I know! Woman’s suffrage has come up since I left home,” replied Johnson, placidly. “Anyhow, I’m going to walk to Conejo and see if I can’t find out something about Casa Grande.”

“Walk? Holy Moses! I’ll go with you.”

“No, you won’t. Somebody’s got to stay here and look after Mrs. Van and Jimmy. The Doc can’t fight and Williams don’t think of anything but the store. You and Miller have got to do the rest.”

“Why don’t you go to Casa Grande? It’s nearer.”

“What’s the use? What could I do? If I go to Conejo, I can pick up Mendoza and his car and mebbe some fellers to go along and make a posse. Of course, if they’re cleaned out—but I’m figurin’ that they ain’t.”

“Sure. You got to do that,” replied O’Grady. “When you goin’ to start?”

“Soon as I can get Mrs. Van to put me up some chow.”

“Well, good luck to you—and the rest of them. I’d sure hate to think of them folks of ours massacred by a bunch of greasers,” and O’Grady strolled sadly away.

Mrs. Van Zandt was washing dishes when Johnson stopped in with his request He prefaced it with an inquiry about the invalid.

“Oh, he’s doin’ all right, I guess. Doc’s give him something to make him sleep. I’ll say this for the man—he’s a good doctor. He means to be a doctor while he’s here, too. Nothing doing on the cooking job.”

“No?”

“No, sir! I asked him something just kind of casual about pies and you’d have said he’d never heard of one. Distant as anything! I suppose I can stand it if he cures Jimmy. Where you going?”

“Going to walk to Conejo.”

“Walk!”

Tom repeated his plan. Mrs. Van wiped her eyes on the dish towel. “You’re a good man,” she said, simply. “I wish I could go with you.”

“I ain’t feeling as brisk as I’m letting on about this business, Mrs. Van,” continued Tom. “What that Chink saw don’t listen good to me.”

“Nor to me. When I think of those girls—well, I ain’t going to think of them. After all, Tom, there’s more ways for folks to get out of trouble than there is for them to get in. I’ve always noticed that. When I was married, I had a husband who knew more about getting into trouble than any living man, and I used to notice that he always went about it in just the same kind of ways—drink, cards, and women; but when I had to get him out of it—why, Lord, there were a million different ways I had to manage. There are loads of ways for smart folks to dodge trouble and our folks are smart.”

Johnson started for Conejo about noon. It was not the hour he would have selected for a long walk in a warm climate, but he had no choice. He did not try to make very rapid progress during the afternoon, his idea being to get in his best work at night; so he rested whenever he struck a shady spot. A stranger coming along and spying Tom stretched under a tree, with his sombrero covering his face, would not have associated him with reckless speed. He ate his supper slowly, thanking Heaven for the invention of the thermos bottle, and then started for the long pull.

It was cool and delightful now and he felt refreshed and invigorated. His bundle was light and he swung along at a good clip. In and out of arroyos, over little bridges, under fragrant branches of pine—the walk was pleasant and the engineer reflected that one sees a good deal from one’s feet that one misses from the cab of an engine. Prairie dogs scuttled into their holes as he approached and chipmunks sat on branches and swore at him in sharp little voices. Now and then a far-away but penetrating odor reminded him of another night animal on the prowl.

His wisdom in following the railroad track instead of the road was evident. It was longer but it led through the mountains at the lowest places. Midnight found him nearly out of the mountains, standing, tired but not exhausted, on the edge of a decline, looking over miles of the semi-flat country to a dark spot where one or two lights twinkled faintly and which he knew was Conejo.

“Old Swartz is still on the job,” he reflected, as he rolled himself in his blanket and settled down for a nap. He had built a small fire and lay with his feet almost in it. He stared ahead of him over the road which he must travel before he could reach his destination and though his trip was only half made he felt as though he were already there, so encouraging was the sight of Swartz’ night light.

“It’s a great country for them that can stand the pace,” he murmured, sleepily. “I’ve a notion sometimes to go back to Omaha and get me a wife and settle down out here. Picking a woman these days is a risk, though. Get a young one, so’s you can educate her, and ten to one you get an ambitious young brat that wants to spend all your money seein’ life. Pick a settled one, a widow woman, say, and you get one that knows more’n you do and that don’t make for happiness in married life. Mrs. Van Zandt’s a likely woman but she’s had one gold brick—’tain’t likely she’d want to fall for another. Besides, I can enjoy her cooking and her company without bein’ married to her, and there’s times I like right well to get clear of her gab,” and so he drifted into sleep, snoring comfortably before his fire went out.

It was the middle of the afternoon when Johnson, tall, gaunt and tired, stalked into Swartz’ store at Conejo where he found a situation for which he was not prepared. Conejo was under martial law, and from every doorway he saw the interested faces of women and children who stared at the soldiers as they went by or stood talking in groups. The jail had a military guard while the office of the local jefe swarmed with uniforms. Outside stood a motor truck and two large automobiles, quite dwarfing Mendoza’s Ford, which, having been requisitioned, also stood near by, its wrathful owner lurking in the distance keeping an eye on his treasure.

In Swartz’ store the fat owner was still in his accustomed seat, while the usual loafers still persistently loafed, but there were soldiers everywhere.

“Whew, this is something new for Conejo!” whistled Tom. “I reckon I’d better have a word with Dutch before I horn in. Say, Swartz,” he said, pushing a crowd of youngsters out of the way, “got anything to drink? I’ve just walked in from Athens.”

“My Gott, are you mad?” inquired Swartz, pleasantly.

“Not yet, but I’m likely to be if I don’t get something down my gullet. Got any beer?”

“Beer?” Swartz’ contempt was sweeping. “Look at dem,” pointing to the soldiers. “Doos that look like I haf any beer mit dem fellers around?”

“Who are they? Federals or Rebs?”

“De State troops. Don’t you know dis here state has—what you call it—seceded?”

“Martial law, eh?”

Swartz nodded.

“Did they grab your stuff or did they pay for it?”

“Oh, dey pays—in paper money,” replied the German, sourly.

“Well, you’re better off than we are. They took our stuff, shot two of the boys, knifed another, and blew up our track.”

“Who done it?”

“Young Pachuca and his crowd. Say, who’s the boss of this outfit?”

Swartz opined that Colonel d’Anguerra, who was lodged in the house of the local jefe, was in command.

“Good-natured kind of a guy, is he?” queried Tom, anxiously. “Or one of the kind that orders out the firing squad if his dinner don’t set well on him?”

Swartz had seen better natured men than the Colonel, but on the other hand admitted that he had seen worse. “He iss a young man,” he said, “and he ain’t got so much sense that it bothers him, yet he tries to keep them devils quiet if he can.”

“Well, give me a drink of water if you ain’t got no beer. I guess I’ll look this feller up.”

“I got some lemon pop,” offered Swartz, hospitably. “Them fellers don’t like it; it ain’t got poison enough in it for ’em.”

Johnson, having drunk the pop, departed for the official residence. It took some time and a good deal of diplomacy to get an audience with the military chief, but it was accomplished at last. D’Anguerra was a youngish man, tall, thin and sallow. He spoke very little English, but his secretary spoke it very well and acted as interpreter, Tom’s Spanish being several degrees worse than the Colonel’s English. The conversation in two tongues proceeded through the secretary with dispatch and accuracy.

“I understand that you are from an American mining company located at Athens?” the Colonel began.

“I am,” replied Tom, a little awed by the other’s dignity and the threefold nature of the dialogue.

“You have been raided by bandits, eh?”

“Well, I suppose you’d call it that. Juan Pachuca helped himself to what he wanted and shot two of our boys.”

“Killed them?”

“No, they ain’t killed, but one of ’em’s likely to lose a leg. He knifed one, but the knife was dull and he ain’t hurt much. But that ain’t what I come over here about.” And Tom went on with Li Yow’s story of the Casa Grande raid, the arrival of Scott, Hard and Polly, and the fire. “I dunno and he dunno who done the burnin’ or what else has happened over there, but he says they heard Pachuca say somethin’ about meeting Angel Gonzales, and I guess you know who he is. I thought mebbe you could let me have a car and a posse and I could go over and see what’s been done.”

The Colonel and his secretary conversed together for a few moments, Tom listening anxiously but quite unable to get the thread of the talk.

“You see, Colonel,” he continued, anxiously, “I dunno if this little revolution of yours is going to turn out the real thing or not; but there’s one thing you can be darn sure of if it does, and that is that one of the first letters your new president’s going to get in his official mail is going to be a bill of damages from Washington and whatever’s happened to our folks is going to be wrote down in it.”

Colonel d’Anguerra smiled patiently. “I will tell you, seÑor, what I know about the affair at Casa Grande. According to this dispatch, a regiment of Sonora troops passed by the ranch on their way south. They saw flames and heard shots. A band of Yaquis who had been driven from their village by one Angel Gonzales were burning and looting. The troops’ orders were for haste and they did not stop to find out the extent of the damage but called off the Yaquis. You perhaps know that those Indians are excellent soldiers and that there are many of them in our army.”

“You mean to say they didn’t go over to see if anything had happened to the women folks?” demanded Tom, aghast.

“Their orders were positive. They could not take the time. To-day we have news that some of our troops have crossed the Sinaloa border. These men who passed Casa Grande were on their way to Hermosillo to guard the capital.”

“Well, it does look like you were pulling it off, don’t it?” Tom’s voice was admiring in spite of himself. “What beats me, seÑor, is how you manage to pump enough enthusiasm into these fellers to keep them fighting. You’ve been at it nearly ten years now. In my country we’d either have put it through by that time or given it up as a bad job and pretended we’d never wanted it anyhow.”

The Mexican laughed. “My friend,” he said, seriously, “people will fight for more than ten years with the hope of liberty and a good government ahead of them. This time we hope to get both.”

“Well, I hope you do. It’s too good a country to go to the dogs. But about this Juan Pachuca——”

“He is no business of mine,” replied the Colonel, briefly. “He was out of favor with the Carranza government and evidently hopes to get into the saddle again through the revolution. Personally, I do not believe he will. General Obregon is not fond of his type. Angel Gonzales is what you call in your country a regular bad lot. I have orders in this dispatch to look into his case. As to the automobile. I can give you an order for the car which you saw outside—the small one. I can’t spare any men.”

“Mendoza’s Ford?” groaned Tom. “I knew I’d draw that. Well, never mind, seÑor. I’m obliged to you just the same.”

The order written, Mendoza was induced to start. “What the devil are those for?” demanded Johnson, as he saw the old Mexican putting three large cans in the car.

“Water,” replied Mendoza, tersely. “Las’ time I drive him ze radiator he leak. I mend him, but quien sabe? We play safe, eh?”

“My God, yes,” murmured Tom. “Come on, amigo, it’s near six and this here’s no country to be rattlin’ round in a damaged Ford after dark.”

The little car justified its owner’s faith in it, however, for it went along at a good clip. The road from Conejo was fairly good and they made good time. The sun was down and the evening had set when they reached the place where Scott and Polly had taken the trail. Mendoza stopped the car.

“Lots of men been by here,” he said. “Soldiers or bandits—mebbe bot’.”

“What d’ye mean?” demanded Tom, waking up. “How can you tell?”

“Don’ have to be Injun to know dat. See tracks,” grunted Mendoza. “Mebbe hundred men come here from trail, amigo.”

Tom looked. The banks of the river were broken and trodden by the feet of many horses. Even in the dim light he could see that, though he would never have noticed it for himself. He admitted when Mendoza persisted that it did look as though a large party of horsemen had crossed the river.

“Well, they’ve passed anyhow, so we should worry. Got a gun?”

“Si,” grinned Mendoza, cheerfully, “I always got a gun.”

“Hold on, what’s this?” They had come around the corner and saw, by the edge of the road, the wrecked wagon. “That’s Herrick’s wagon,” said Tom, excitedly. “In the ditch!” He got down and went to investigate.

“Wheel’s busted. Horses must have got scared and bolted round the curve,” said the engineer, meditatively. “Nothin’ in the wagon. Looks bad to me; don’t it to you, Mendoza?”

“Si,” responded Mendoza. “We go by Soria’s place. He know mebbe what happen.”

“All right,” assented Tom, sadly. “If they’d got away on the horses seems to me we’d have seen or heard somethin’ of them on the road. Unless they went by the trail—in that case them fellers on horseback would have met ’em. Well, step on your gas, Mendoza, and let’s get to Soria’s.”

Soria’s place was empty. Not a child, nor a dog, nor a burro. Not a sign of life on the place anywhere. This was a blow and intensified Tom’s gloomy fears. He did not speak as they drove on to Casa Grande. The moon was coming up and they saw the badly burned ruins of the barn as they turned in.

“Ze house is lef’,” said Mendoza, consolingly.

“Yes, it is,” said Tom. “But look at them windows! Riddled with bullets. The boys must have put up a good fight with them Indians, anyhow. Tell you what, Mendoza, I’d give a good deal to see old Scotty’s ugly mug in one of ’em! Come on, we may as well go in,” and he stepped apprehensively out of the car.