After three days of fruitless search for work, Stephen’s outlook upon life grew very gloomy. Dominion was over-supplied with laborers. In looking backward, Stephen felt that he had applied for every sort of position from bank president to day laborer, but everywhere the answer had been the same: “Sorry, but we have nothing for you. We are even turning off our old workmen.”

In the West, in time of prosperity, positions and opportunities of every sort go begging. In time of depression there is no harder place in which to get work.

To make matters worse, Stephen from principle had always refused to affiliate himself with one of the labor organizations, and in Dominion the power of the Union is paramount. Once he had almost persuaded the foreman at one of the smelters to put him on the rolls; but when the fact had appeared that he was a non-Union man the official had changed his mind.

“I can’t risk it. It is all wrong; but if I was to hire you to-day, why to-morrow I wouldn’t have three men working.” This had been his final answer.

Shortly after this experience, Loring had been approached by a delegate who had tried to persuade him to join the Miners’ Union. The delegate had enumerated the advantages, and they were many,—a sick benefit of ten dollars a week, friends wherever he should go, work at high wages, and a seventy-five dollar funeral when he died. The delegate had asked Stephen if it were fair that when the Union, by concerted action, had brought about the prevailing high scale of wages, outsiders should both share the advantage, and yet weaken the Union position by working contrary to the fixed scale. At the end, as a peroration, the man had cited the possibilities of crushing capital at the polls, arguing with the general point of view of such men, that the chief aim of capital was to crush labor.

“You needn’t pay your dues until you get your first month’s wages,” he had concluded.

Stephen had begun to feel that perhaps his anti-Union convictions had been prejudiced, for the man had clearly shown many good arguments. Then the delegate, seeing that Stephen was weakening, had thought to clinch the matter. Changing his manner, he had shaken his finger in Loring’s face and said: “If you don’t join the Union, we’ll see to it that you don’t get a job in the territory. We’ll send your picture to every camp in Arizona, and life will be hell for you. There was a man only last week who wouldn’t join. He is in the hospital now, and, by Gawd, he will stay there for a while.”

“That settles it,” Loring had answered.

The man had become all smiles again.

“I thought you would see it that way,” he had rejoined.

“I think that you misunderstand me,” had been Stephen’s reply. “I would not join your Union if you hired me to do so. As a matter of fact, the Miners’ Union here is not a true labor union. It is a thugs’ Union, and the sooner all honest workingmen find it out, the better for the cause of Unionism throughout the country.”

The scuffle that had ensued had resulted in Loring’s favor, but it had not helped him to find work.

One morning, rather from want of occupation than from any definite expectations, Stephen took his place in the post-office at the general delivery window. He was greatly surprised when, in answer to his inquiry, the clerk slipped a letter through the grating. It bore the Quentin postmark; but the writing was unfamiliar. Stephen walked across the room, and leaning in the doorway opened the letter with curiosity. It was from Mr. Cameron, and ran in this fashion:

Stephen read this sentence over several times before continuing:

here several words were scratched out

Stephen noticed with interest the character of the signature.

“I don’t believe that man ever failed at anything,” he thought. “There is only one thing that he never learned, and that is how to deal with a failure.”

It was the noon hour, and the various whistles told of lunch, for some. Stephen read the letter over and over.

“Why not accept the offer?” he questioned. Mr. Cameron could certainly feel no more disrespect for him than he did now, and the blatant fact that he was hungry and without work forced itself upon his attention.

“It means another chance,” he muttered, and now that he was sure of himself, he knew that a chance meant success. He thrust the letter into his pocket.

“Hang it, I’ll take him up,” he thought. “I have been everything else; I may as well be a grafter.”

As he slid his hand out of his coat pocket, he felt another envelope. He pulled it out, and looked longingly at it. It was Jean’s note. He hesitated, then tore it open.

“I need it now, if ever I shall,” he said to himself. There was only a line, signed with Jean’s initials.

Stephen read it with bowed head. His shoulders shook. The paper danced up and down before his eyes. Over and over he read the note. Unconsciously he stretched out his hand, as if to press in gratitude and devotion the hand of some one before him. At length, with a start, he came to himself. He returned the note to his pocket, and in a determined fashion walked up to a man who was standing near him.

“I would like to borrow two cents for a stamp,” he said.

The stranger roared with laughter.

“Well, you are broke! Say, friend, I’ll stake you to a meal, if you’re that hard up.”

Stephen shook his head: “No, thank you. I have still my coat, which I can pawn; but I am much obliged for the stamp.”

He found an odd envelope lying on a table. Going over to the desk, he addressed this to Mr. Cameron. Then taking from the waste basket a sheet of paper, he wrote quickly upon it five words:

He put on the stamp with a hard pound of his fist, and threw the letter into the mail-box. Then, with his heart beating joyously, he walked out of the post-office. Inside his coat a note lay warm against his heart.

On the corner stood a pawnbroker’s shop. The brightness of the gilding upon the three balls showed that it was a successful one. The place was crowded with men who were disposing of everything that duty, a mild sense of decency, or necessity did not for the moment require. Loring entered the shop, and elbowing his way to the desk, laid down his coat. The proprietor picked it up, prodded the cloth with his thumb-nail, shook his head over the worn lining, then said:

“Two bits on that.”

Stephen silently took the proffered quarter, and went out.

“That means one meal, anyhow,” he thought.

A gaudy sign attracted his attention: “Chinese-American Restaurant”—“All you can eat for two bits.”

“I think that they do not lose much on their sign,” he reflected when, a few minutes later, seated at a counter, he gnawed at some bread and stew, and drank bitter coffee. “Any man who ate more than a quarter’s worth would die.”

Having eaten, he sauntered over to the cashier’s window and nonchalantly slid his quarter across the counter. Then no longer a capitalist, but also no longer hungry, he stepped out into the street again. He looked to right and left wondering in what direction to turn his footsteps. The sight of a crowd in front of the post-office determined him. He questioned a man on the outskirts of the group, and found that the excitement was caused by a telegram, the contents of which was posted in the window. Working his way through the crowd, Loring reached a position whence he could make out the notice. The telegram was from the governor of Sonora, the Mexican province which lay just across the line from Dominion.

The crowd was laughing and cheering.

“Me for Old Mexico!” called one.

“Perhaps we’ll all be generals,” shouted another.

The news had spread like wild-fire, and from every direction appeared groups of men, armed with Winchesters, shotguns, or Colts. All were rushing toward the Southern Pacific station. Stephen hurried up the street to a gun store, and by dint of hard persuasion obtained from the proprietor an old Spencer forty-five calibre, single shot carbine.

“It will at least make a noise,” thought Loring. He joined a group of men who were on their way to the train.

“I might as well go to Mexico as anywhere,” he reflected. “My responsibilities are not heavy just at present.”

Within half an hour after the receipt of the telegram in Dominion, three hundred men, all armed to the teeth, were at the station. For in a region where the sheriff’s posse is one of the regular forms of entertainment, there are many men who joyously start upon an expedition of this kind.

A cheer arose from the crowd when Harry Benson, at one time the captain of the “Arizona Rangers,” appeared upon the scene, clearing a way for himself by the adept fashion in which he spat tobacco juice.

“Going along, Harry? Good boy,” some one called. “You ought to have brought all the Rangers with you.”

“See here,” answered Benson, “this ain’t in no wise official business. This is sort of a pleasure excursion.” There was a howl of laughter at this, then as the engine whistle blew sharply, all scampered for places in the “special” which the railway company had provided.

A man who was on the front platform of one of the cars began to sing a song—a very popular song, of which the verse and chorus were unprintable, but very singable. With men hanging out of the windows, standing on the roofs of the cars, and with platforms and steps jammed, the train pulled out of the station, headed for the Mexican Line, only fifteen miles away.

Half an hour brought them to the border. Here were waiting the governor of Sonora and many Mexicans, who cheered excitedly as the train drew into the station. Benson, by unanimous consent, was acting as director-general of warfare. As the train slowed down, he jumped to the platform. A Mexican official resplendent in uniform and gold braid, in strange contrast to the motley throng following at Benson’s heels, stepped forward to greet him. Benson sang out cheerfully: “Hello, here we are; what is there for us to do?”

While the official was explaining the situation, he looked a bit anxiously at the crowd, hoping that when the trouble was over, they would all depart from the province of Sonora with the same celerity with which they had come. It certainly was a hard-looking aggregation.

The Governor talked earnestly with Benson, speaking excellent English. “I do not know what to do. According to the laws, no armed force can enter our territory. It is a bad precedent. And yet we need help. There are no troops near Los Andes where the raiders are feared. Yet the laws are very strict, and as an officer of the law I must not let them be broken. The law says plainly: ‘No armed force.’ What shall I do?” The Governor was in despair over the situation.

Benson saved the day.

“Look here, Gov,” he said. “I used to be an officer of the law myself. A man must conform strictly to the laws; I know all about it. But,” he added, with a wink, “we’re here, just sort of a disorganized party as happened to meet on the train. We was all going hunting near Los Andes, and we sort of came over without formalities.”

The Governor’s face beamed with happiness at this solution.

“It is magnifico! And as the custom-house cannot appraise so many weapons at once, you are permitted to carry them, gentlemen. In bond, of course, in bond,” he added hastily.

“Yesterday we had news from the hills that the Yaquis were raiding again,” he said to Benson. “Two prospectors were killed, not fifty miles from Los Andes. A bridge on the main line is down. The troops cannot be there for twenty-four hours.”

Benson nodded comprehendingly. “Same old trouble, ain’t it? I wonder these Yaquis wouldn’t get tired. We’ll fix them up good for you if they come.”

These formalities of international law having been settled, all again boarded the train, and a slow hour’s run toward the west brought them to Los Andes.

The inhabitants of this sleepy little town of Old Mexico thronged about the station and welcomed their prospective rescuers with enthusiasm. Loud cries of “Vivan Los Americanos!” echoed from end to end of the platform, as the men swarmed out of the train.

Soon the men were assigned to quarters in the various houses and shops. The plaza before the cathedral in the center of the town became, for probably the first time in its existence, a scene of activity.

As Benson was completing the disposition of his men, a Mexican ranch owner rode up to him.

“The SeÑor is the comandante?” he asked in broken English.

“Sure, Mike, Seguro Miguel—Fire away!” answered Benson.

The ranchman looked puzzled, then commenced to explain his errand. His ranch, it appeared, was situated some twenty miles outside the town, in the direction from which the Yaquis were expected, and his ranchmen were all absent upon the range. He asked for five or six men to defend his hacienda:

Benson waved his hand airily, in feeble imitation of the Mexican’s grand manner: “’Sta ’ueno, you shall have them.”

Turning, he saw Loring, who had been listening to the talk. Benson was accustomed to judging men quickly, and he was rarely deceived. A quick survey of Loring’s face satisfied him.

“He is no quitter, anyhow,” he thought, “and at present his moral character don’t matter.” He called to Loring: “Say, you Mr. What’s-your-name, you get four other men and go with this chap to his ranch!”

“Have you caballos for them here?” Benson asked the ranchman.

“SÍ, sÍ, I can procure them at once,” exclaimed SeÑor Hernandez. “And my gratitude, it is eternal.”

“Never mind that,” said Benson, turning away.

A very short while sufficed for Stephen to find four volunteers to accompany them, and within an hour the little party was riding out of the town to the southward, where lay the ranch and the threatened pass. The country was desolation itself, rocky ground covered with layers of dust and sand. All was gray in color. The little clusters of sage-brush, all dried and lifeless in the heat, made no change in the gray hue. The road was merely a track across the desert, beaten by chance horsemen or cattle. Along this the horses scuffled, sending up clouds of alkali dust into the air for the benefit of the riders who were behind.

Stephen rode beside SeÑor Hernandez, speaking only in short sentences, to answer or ask some question. The leather of the saddles, beneath the sun, was burning hot.

After four hours of riding, just as the sun was beginning to drop behind the foothills, they saw before them in the desert a large patch of green, as vivid as if painted upon the ground, fresh and succulent, amidst the desolation of the plain.

“My alfalfa crop!” exclaimed the SeÑor, pointing with pride. “We have irrigated. Much water. Big crop. He aqui la casa—there, behind the alfalfa.”

Stephen saw rise, as if by magic, a long one-story structure of adobe, so much the color of the earth as to have been till now almost indistinguishable. Beside the house was a large brush corral. So perfectly was all blended with the landscape, that not until they were very near did Loring appreciate the great size of the building.

At the corral they dismounted and unsaddled.

“Better carry the saddles up to the house!” said Loring to the men, who had hung them over the corral bars. So, carrying their guns and saddles, they all walked up to the house.

Here they were received by the ranchman’s wife, a striking Spanish beauty.

“It is SeÑora Hernandez,” said the Mexican, with justifiable pride. The SeÑora showed the men the rooms where they were to sleep. Stephen, as commander, was given the largest room.

Pepita was very well pleased with the appearance of the defender whom her husband had selected, for in spite of his flannel shirt and dusty boots, Loring was not bad to look upon.

In a few moments, Stephen re-entered the main room. The SeÑora was there, leaning against one of the easements. The scarf that was thrown over her head added to her charms, and lent a subtlety to her dark beauty. As Stephen walked across the room toward her, he admired her greatly.

“By George! She is a beauty,” he exclaimed under his breath. Then answered a voice within him: “Yes, but at thirty, she will be fat, oh, very fat.”

As the SeÑora turned to greet him, the first voice made answer: “Yes, but it will be at least twelve years before she is thirty.”