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 disgrace a pirate. Take 'em all around as they go, I guess Pachuca stacks up pretty well. He's educated and comes of good folks. But how the deuce did you happen----" "Oh, I suppose it does sound awful!" Polly said, in a rush. "But he was on the train and when the horrid little thing stopped on the side of a hill for two hours, he came along and explained what was the matter." "He talks English like a Bostonese," said Scott. "Doesn't he? And anything that sounds like Boston just naturally puts confidence in a Chicagoan, don't you know? Then when I landed at Conejo in that wild sand-storm with no one to meet me and the Morgans out of town, he offered to drive me over, and I let him. It didn't seem far; why, at home we often drive that far in an evening."