“But I am not going back on this trip, señora,” he replied. “I have no reason to go, and several reasons for staying, as well as that I want to. I would, if I returned to New Orleans for goods to trade, have to convince my parents and persuade them to my return--a difficult thing--and there is no wagonful of goods on hand at Westport Landing. No, I am sending messages to my father, of my safety and my hope that he will now see fit to enter into a half partnership with me”--the lad had the grace to smile--“he supplying the goods, and I----” “And you your life,” snorted the good Spanish lady. “Fair enough. Well, I am glad we are not to lose you so soon.” “You may at that, if I get any more such traps set for me as that of last night,” Steven replied. “Well, I think I shall get a good night’s rest, for this head gave me little sleep last night, and my arm did not enjoy the trotting of my mare on the way back here.” The Señora Katarina brought him a bowl of soup rich with chili and ground meat balls, and with this warming his ribs, he stretched himself gratefully between cooling sheets, thinking what a hard lot the poor girl Hope had, and wondering how he should manage to see Señorita Consuelo again. She had been right; he _was_ in danger, apparently. And she had run the risk of letting him know--he must show her that--that he appreciated--that he appreciated-- Steven was asleep. He woke some time later because a light was shining right into his eyes and a hard hand was shaking his shoulder. He struggled to throw off the heavy slumber into which he had sunk. A bearded Mexican hung over him, a man he had never seen before. Behind this man stood two other Mexicans, and behind them he could see the agitated face of Señora Katarina. What was it all about? He would soon learn. He was under arrest. Get up, get his clothes on, and exchange these quarters for the _carcel_. But what for? With what was he charged? That was all right. He would know soon enough. The young Mexican standing in the background threw back his serape and indicated an emblem of authority on his chest. Steven was handicapped with his wrenched left arm, and besides, there were three of them and another outside. Best go along now, he decided reluctantly, and see what happened. And so when he had pulled on his clothes they filed down the dark and crooked little street and came at length to the jail, a stupid low building no whit different outside from the corral beside it or the houses about it, except that there were no windows at all on the street, only the door, which was strongly barred after them as they entered.