“_Muy bien_, Señorita; very good then,” Raquel answered, making up her mind at once. “If you will be so kind, we will stop here and leave early in the morning for Nacozari. We have food in our saddle bags, so do not let us trouble you.” But the girl brought a snowy cloth of drawn work, spread it upon a soap box by the well, and gave them hot frijole beans, and tortillas; and they in return gave the dirty black-eyed little children some dried figs and dates from their supplies. Dreamless sleep came to them on their folded ponchos; under Raquel’s head her money belt; above, the brilliant stars of those clear skies. At dawn the Mexican girl knelt, shaking them, while the ragged little children and the old man still slept. “Drink, and take these tortillas.” She pressed the thin corn cakes upon them. “I will go with you as far as I can to point the way.” She led a fuzzy little burro out of a windowless room that opened on the courtyard, and the three went off towards a hill to the south. An hour later they parted, the girl’s directions pointing their route through a pass southward. Looking backward, it all seemed like a dream to Raquel. It had been a gay ride down to Nacozari that she and Georgie had undertaken that day, through the same kind of country they had grown up in--hundreds of miles of it! Only this was hotter. Then suddenly bursting into Nacozari, the little Mexican town so like a motion picture setting--green plaza, statue in the center, the deep galleried hotel covered with a profusion of scarlet roses. Supper, and cool white beds in cool white rooms, after a chat on the veranda in the dark with some Mexicans lounging there. “You seek the cattle _ranchos_?” queried a mine foreman of communicative disposition. (No one else had seemed to know anything about anything.) “A bad time.” Raquel had become used to this attitude. People were constitutionally discouraging down here, it seemed. “They’re mostly run off into the hills,” continued the foreman, “but there is fine country over there, southeast, and at El Rancho Escondido the old Don Señon Torreon still has more cattle than he can count. _Si, Señor._” For a slight consideration he himself might even ride so far with the young Señores; did they have any American cigars? No? A pity. But for two dollars gold he would be happy to tell them exactly how to reach El Escondido--even take them part way. With the caution of the rider whose saddle is more valuable than his horse, Raquel and Georgie took their saddles and bags up to their rooms. Raquel went over their light equipment, putting everything in shape for the trip next morning. At the bottom of her bag was a bulky little lump which she found was made by two cans of sterno and a tiny can of powdered coffee. Mom’s contribution! Sterno had always seemed wonderful to her. No wood to tote, no fire to lay. Raquel smiled. Little need of that. She took the three little tins out, then impulsively put them back.