astir in the tree-tops, when Bill Whiting, station agent at
Rosario, began to bestir himself. The station agent was not about so
early on account of passengers that might be expected by an early
train--for the excellent reason that there was no morning train. Since
fighting had begun in Chihuahua, schedules had, to quote Bill, "gone to
pot." On a sidetrack lay a locomotive, smokeless and inert, just as
her crew had abandoned her. Some loaded freight cars, their contents
untouched, likewise stood on the spur. That Bill Whiting, however,
meant to guard the railroad's property, was evidenced by the fact that
strapped to his waist was a portly revolver, while a rifle lay handy in
the ticket office, in which, since the outbreak of trouble, he had
watched and slept and cooked.

Bill's first task, after tumbling out of his blankets and washing his
face in a tin basin standing in one corner of the office, was to tap
the telegraph key. The instrument gave out a lifeless "tick-tick."

"No juice--blazes!" grunted Bill, and, being a philosophical young man,
he bothered himself no more about the matter, and went about getting
his breakfast.

In the midst of his preparations, however, he suddenly straightened up
and listened intently. To hear better, he even shoved aside the
sizzling frying-pan from its position over one burner of his kerosene
stove. What had attracted his attention was a distant sound--faint at
first, but momentarily growing nearer.

"Blazes!" muttered Bill, scratching his head, and making for a rear
window, which commanded a view of the long, white road. "What's that,
I wonder? Sounds like a sick cow."

He gazed out of the window earnestly, and then suddenly recoiled with a
startled exclamation.

"Blazes! It ain't no cow. It's an automobubble. Yes, sir, as sure as
you live, it's a bubble. Whose can it be? Maybe it's old man
Stetson's himself."

Chugging in a spasmodic sort of way, the car drew nearer, and the
station agent now saw that there were several people in it.

"Looks like that car is spavined, or something," commented Bill. "Why,
it's regularly limping; yes, sir--blazes!--it's limping, fer a fact."

Buck Bradley's auto was, in fact, at almost its "last gasp." Ralph's
temporary repair had not lasted any longer than he had expected.
Fortunately, at the time it gave out, the insurrectos had apparently
given up the chase, and the party was not far from the hacienda of a
friend of t