The man had left with the note that morning, after ten o’clock, he said, and he was here already. Georgie had given him a silver dollar to carry the message, and said his sister would give him more still if he would guide her back to him. “Fine,” Raquel agreed and hurried away to get ready, having first excused herself to her host. Don Nestor must not know of her going. He would be distressed and might object. But she must go at once. Paintbrush was saddled, and the big brown horse which she had herself recovered from the bush a few days before. His foot seemed to have completely healed, and she saw that this would be a good opportunity to return him to the regiment, and would furnish an excuse for her visit. Back again she rode over the weary miles, only now the way was easier, with a hard road and the peón to guide her. He was a _vaquero_, he said, and she promised him work at El Escondido if he wished to return with them. Early in the morning they neared Nacozari. Raquel had not yet determined what she must do in order to get Georgie away. Down the valley she could hear a trumpeter. The regiment was in the town. She rode bravely into the plaza, which was filled with soldiers. No sign of Georgie, but he’d soon spot the pinto, all right. Straight up to the hotel she rode, dismounted, throwing the reins to her attendant, and strode into the dining-room. At a table sat the _Coronel_ at breakfast, with his aides and lieutenant. He glanced in surprise at the youngster who intruded so rashly. “Pardon, _Coronel_,” Raquel swept her sombrero in salute, “does this roan gelding I have outside belong by chance to you? He was found near my _rancho_, lame, with an infected foot, which I have cured.” The _Coronel_ looked annoyed, but before he could speak one of the aides replied: “The _Coronel_ can not be bothered. He has not yet had his coffee. But I will go out and see the horse. There was a roan horse belonging to _el General_ left behind a week or two ago, and he was much annoyed.” The _Coronel_ was looking at Raquel aggrievedly. “I have not yet had my coffee,” he complained. “Water boils slowly at this altitude,” Raquel sympathized. “You talk like a native,” snapped the _Coronel_. “You mean every one moves slowly at this altitude. You don’t look like a native, though,” he added. “I have spent much time in the states,” Raquel replied. “I only returned indeed, a few months ago.” “Is that so?” _The Coronel_ was mildly interested. “I myself went to school in California as a youth. Won’t you sit down and have breakfast with us? That is, if we ever get it! We have been waiting three-quarters of an hour for that dastardly _cocinero_ to boil water for us. “I die for my coffee!” he exploded with fresh wrath. “You want coffee?” asked Raquel. What a question! Then a brilliant idea occurred to her, though just how brilliant it was she did not at the moment realize.