Ana sat quietly on the veranda for a little while, speaking of matters in general, and then arose languidly and confessed she wished she had gone with Raquel. A ride to the beach was better than to stay shut up in the town. Now that the vigilantes had gone, women would dare ride abroad without growing gray with fear. "Ai! it is not far you would ride, Ana Mendez. You are like other women when it comes to riding alone these days." "Raquel rides alone." "Her mother was not of this country, or she would not be so bold," returned Teresa, tartly. "Men have little liking for women as strong as themselves." "Alas for me!" laughed Ana, "for I tell you now I am going to copy after her. She makes the other women look like sheep. If she would go with me, I would ride to the San Joaquin ranch this night and have no fear." Teresa shrugged her shoulders. "You grow like a child, Ana, as you get more years. Your letter makes you young again--so?" But Ana was out of the gate, and crossing the plaza with a light springy step, as if indeed the days of girlhood had come back. In her eyes was a smile, but back of the smile was a light of new determination. All at once she seemed to have found herself: he was in danger, and had called her. At the Mission she found the Indian boy with a dish of frijolles. "How did the letter come?" she asked, but he did not know. It was found under the door, and it had frightened Dona Refugia, and she wanted it out of the house when the men were away. She thought it, maybe, was a demand for money, such as the outlaws had sent Senor Eduardo Downing, and she asked Ana for the love of God to send word back quick what it meant. "It is only from the padre who borrowed the horse, and he thanks her," said Ana, coolly. "Ride straight home, and talk to no one, or you will get a reata instead of frijolles." The Indian boy nodded silently. He knew the Dona Ana always kept her promises of that sort. A little later, Teresa looked out at the sound of horse-hoofs thundering by, and saw Ana on the road to the sea.