A little later, with the two Athens horses hitched to the mountain wagon, the party started out, Hard driving. The road led out through the hills where the fighting had been only a few hours ago. There was no sign of what had happened. It was a poor road, narrow, rough and little used. There were ruts in it and chuck-holes, turns and an occasional arroyo. It was rather ghostly, too, driving at this hour; the chill, early morning feel of the air, the fading moon, the faint pinkness hanging over the mountains suggesting the coming dawn. "One thing you miss around here is the cattle," said Scott. "Up in New Mexico you'd be starting out this time in the morning and you'd see the range cattle looking at you, sort of surprised to see folks around so early in the morning; some of 'em still lying down and napping. Around here raising cattle hasn't been very popular the last few years--too hazardous." "Miss Polly, I want you to notice that funny little house over there," said Hard, pointing to his right. "Where?" Indeed, there was reason for the question. The little cabin had been built tightly against a hill, with the hill scooped out to make the back part. A closer look revealed a burro standing on the roof beside the chimney. "Well, that's the first time I ever saw a burro on a roof!" declared Polly. "Who lives there?" "A Mexican family named Soria," replied Hard. "I'll go over and see if they know anything about the fighting last night." "You won't need to," said Scott. "Here comes the whole population." So it seemed. There was an old woman--very old, very thin and very brown; a younger one, half a dozen youngsters, several dogs and finally the burro. The family were clad in every sort of decrepit garment. Polly thought she had rarely seen so pitiful an assemblage; and yet they did not look particularly unhappy, except the younger woman, who hung back and seemed to have been crying. They had seen the wagon and had come out to find out what was going on. The older woman came directly to the wagon, while the younger one stood a little way off, a baby in her arms, and the other children hanging around her. She was rather a pretty woman, or would have been with half a chance. It is difficult to be pretty when your hair hangs in straggling locks, your too plump figure festoons itself around you in bags, and your clothes look as though you had never had them off since you first became acquainted with them. Poor things, they lead an awful life. "I'll let you speak to her, Clara," Hard said, with a smile. "I think your Spanish is in better working order than mine. Ask after the daughter's husband; he's in the army and it may open the way for a little information." Mrs. Conrad spoke in rapid and soft-sounding Spanish to the old woman who stood listening, her wrinkled face set in the monotony of hopelessness.