about then. I had nothing but a small hand-bag, and it contained only
a six-shooter. I bought a book to read on the train and on the road
out, called 'Other People's Money.' The title caught my fancy, and it
was very interesting. It was written by a Frenchman,--full of love
and thrilling situations. I had the money belted on me securely, and
started out with flying colors. The railroad runs through a dreary
country, not worth a second look, so I read my new book. When I
arrived at the station I found the conveyance awaiting me. The plan
was to drive halfway, and stay over night at a certain hacienda.

"The driver insisted on starting at once, telling me that we could
reach the Hacienda Grande by ten o'clock that night, which would be
half my journey. We had a double-seated buckboard and covered the
country rapidly. There were two Mexicans on the front seat, while I
had the rear one all to myself. Once on the road I interested myself
in 'Other People's Money,' almost forgetful of the fact that at that
very time I had enough of other people's money on my person to set all
the bandits in Mexico on my trail. There was nothing of incident that
evening, until an hour before sundown. We reached a small ranchito,
where we spent an hour changing horses, had coffee and a rather light
lunch.

"Before leaving I noticed a Pinto horse hitched to a tree some
distance in the rear of the house, and as we were expecting to buy a
number of horses, I walked back and looked this one carefully over.
He was very peculiarly color-marked in the mane. I inquired for his
owner, but they told me that he was not about at present. It was
growing dusk when we started out again. The evening was warm and
sultry and threatening rain. We had been on our way about an hour
when I realized we had left the main road and were bumping along on a
by-road. I asked the driver his reason for this, and he explained that
it was a cut-off, and that by taking it we would save three miles and
half an hour's time. As a further reason he expressed his opinion that
we would have rain that night, and that he was anxious to reach the
hacienda in good time. I encouraged him to drive faster, which he did.
Within another hour I noticed we were going down a dry arroyo, with
mesquite brush on both sides of the road, which was little better than
a trail. My suspicions were never aroused sufficiently to open the
little hand-bag and belt on the six-shooter. I was dreaming along