"Any baggage?" demanded Scott, gruffly.

"One trunk," replied Polly, rather dazed by the suddenness of the affair.
"But it's back at Conejo."

"Want any help with that car?"

"No, thank you, the young lady and I have remedied the trouble."

"Of course there's no use in my asking if there's any particular reason
for your being in this neighborhood, Pachuca?"

"There is always a reason for my being where I am," was the suave reply.
"This time it does not concern you."

"That's good. No revolutions up your sleeve, eh?"

Pachuca chuckled. "I wouldn't be too sure of that, _amigo_," he said.
"Would you take the advice of a friend, Marc Scott?"

"I might, if you'd guarantee he ain't lying."

"Then tell your people to close up their mine, take their women and get
out of the country. There is trouble coming," and the young Mexican bowed
politely to the girl and returned to his machine.

"Now, what do you suppose the young devil meant by that?" demanded Scott,
as he turned the team and faced the hill again. Polly's eyes were wide
open.

"Who is he?" she said, eagerly. "You seemed to know him. Does he really
live near here?"

"I believe he has a ranch about here somewhere--some ways south. As to
where he lives I reckon he could hardly tell you that himself."

"But where did you know him?"

"I don't know him. I don't want to know him. The last time I saw him was
when Villa stopped over with us on one of his retreats. This guy was with
him. That little visit cost us a dozen good horses, two hundred dollars,
and our winter's supply of canned goods. He's an expensive acquaintance,
that fellow."

Polly's face was full of horror. "Do you mean," she gasped, "that I've
been riding around the country with a Mexican bandit?"

"Oh, I don't know as I'd call him a bandit."

"He told me that he was a colonel in the army!" indignantly.

"Well, he was, so I've heard. He's been quite a lot of things. Maybe we'd
better not talk about him any more to-night. It's kind of exciting for you
after all you've been through."

"Exciting!" Polly sank back in her seat limply.

"He was all right to you, wasn't he?" continued Scott, a little shyly.
"Wasn't fresh or anything like that?"

"Oh, yes, he was all right," murmured the girl, quickly.

"These Mexicans are queer. You can't tell what they'll do," went on Scott.
"Sometimes they've got manners like the President of the United States,
and the next time they'll do something that'd