As they rode on Pat noticed a queer commotion. Here and there a door closed violently, only to open again cautiously as they drew opposite, revealing sometimes two, sometimes three, sometimes five pairs of black eyes, all ranged timidly one pair over another in the opening. Dogs skulked before their approach, snarling in strange savagery, while whole flocks of chickens, ruffling in dusty hollows, took frantically to wing at their coming, fleeing before them in unwonted disorder. And finally, as they moved past the well, a half-grown boy, only partly dressed, hurtled out of the side door of one house, raced across a yard to the front door of another house, and slammed the door shut behind him in a panic. It was all very strange, and it made a deep impression upon him. Also it evidently impressed the men, for as they drew rein in front of the store, with its dust-dry shelves and haunting silence, all asked quick questions of the proprietor, a little wizened, gimlet-eyed Mexican who was leaning in the doorway. After glancing over their accoutrements with a nod of understanding, he answered, explaining the reason for the agitation. It was all the result of a raid. Three days before a band of marauders had swept down from the north, ransacked pigstys and chicken-coops and corrals, and galloped off madly to the south. Yes, they had plundered the store also. Indian renegades--yes. He could not say from what reservation. Yes, they were armed, and in warpaint, and riding good horses--all of them. No, he could not say--about thirty in the band, perhaps. He--What? Yes, he had alfalfa and, if they wished, other things--beans and rice and canned goods. No, the renegades had not wholly cleaned out the store. Yes, he had matches. No, they had not-- What? _Vino?_ To be sure he had _Vino_! He would get--how many bottles?--right away! It was in the cellar, where he kept it cool, and reasonably safe from all marauders--including himself. With this slight witticism he disappeared into the store.