"Well, no, Villa's in a class by himself. You can't call a man who has controlled a state and who has dictated to presidents, a bandit, can you? He's on too big a scale. Pachuca took up banditry, in a gentlemanly sort of way; at least they say he did; nobody's proved it on him. He was undoubtedly with Villa at one time. He was with him when he stopped here and nabbed our horses. I was away at the time. I've never seen the fellow. Then, gossip says, they quarreled and Pachuca went back to his people in the South. I haven't a doubt, however, that if another revolution should break out, Johnny would climb into the band-wagon against the government and land in the army again." "And that's the man I undertook to drive alone in the dark with!" gasped the girl. "Mr. Hard, promise me you'll never tell Bob?" "I promise," replied Hard, laughing. "And here we are at breakfast. Miss Street, this is Mr. Williams, who runs our store, Mr. Adams, of the office force----" and so on until each had very consciously greeted the newcomer. Scott, who sat at the end of the table, looked up and bowed, receiving a cool little response. He returned unconcerned to his ham and eggs. If the new arrival was going to be disagreeable, he would keep out of her way. Breakfast went off pleasantly. The food was excellent and with the exception of Scott, who kept his distance, everyone was quite evidently trying to put the girl at her ease. From the train crew, who announced their intention of running over to Conejo for her trunk, to Adams who spoke for the privilege of taking her over the plant, and Williams, who begged for an early opportunity to show his collection of baskets and pottery, each had something to offer. Even the black-eyed Dolores peeped admiringly through the hole in the wall, gathering items about the visitor to retail to the eager ears of relatives and friends at the next _baile_. After breakfast, Adams piloted Polly over the premises, from the corral to the office. He showed her the automobile lying idle because an important part was broken and the new one though ordered from the factory had not come. "I hope you ride?" he said, and as she nodded: "that's good. Maybe we can get up a party to ride across the mesa to Casa Grande. That's Herrick's place." "Herrick?" "Yes. Queer chap--part German and part English. Artistic, you know--plays the piano and sings." "What's he doing here if he's an artist?" demanded Polly. "Runs a ranch and writes music. His wife died suddenly--she used to travel around with him and sing his songs--they made a pile of money, I guess." "You don't mean Victor Herrick!" gasped the girl. "Yes, that's him. He went to pieces when she died and packed up his piano and his music and came down here and buried himself on the ranch. Queer customer, but you'll like him."