Raquel gasped. What a princely possession! And he owned the range. Tomorrow Esteban, his foreman, would ride out with _vaqueros_ to bring in several hundred head. It would take some time, Don Nestor believed, to get together a thousand. They had better wait a bit there and let them collect as many cattle as possible. He would be glad to sell at their price. Don Nestor had no family, alas! Wealth was nothing to him. How did they plan to drive the cattle out? He had heard that revolutionists were again gathering in Sonora. He was so isolated, he paid little attention. “One always hears that, Señor,” Raquel replied laughingly, “yet business in Mexico still goes on. I, too, heard rumors as we rode along, yet all was quiet. I think we can drive straight back through the hills the way we came. We will need _vaqueros_ from here. And my brother here is two men himself.” It was enchanting to rest in the charming old house next day; to listen to Don Nestor’s tales of the past, of Spanish legend, and Aztec lore, and old Mexican tradition, and to hear the natives strumming the guitar and the violin, from hidden court yard and balcony. It was pleasant to feel the lazy, sweet plentifulness of everything. And then, that night, after the third day, suddenly there were shots. Don Nestor came trembling up the little flight of stairs that gave upon the court yard, knocking at their doors. He was in nightshirt and cap, a candle in his hand. “Awake,”--they did not need to--“dress, dress, my dear Señorita. But of course I understood from the beginning you were no man!” he exploded irritably. “_Bandidos_, robbers, revolutionists, already upon us! The infamy! Manuel, the overseer, will ride with you to a refuge in the hills. _Pronto_, Queeck, Señorita!” And there was a last glimpse of the old man descending through a trap door into a hidden cellar, carrying baskets of family plate, and a chest of some precious treasure. He refused to leave with them. He could not, he said, ride so far anyway. The hurried flight from the corral on restless, waiting horses--Raquel was never to forget it. Georgie seized his own horse and Manuel was saddling a mount of Don Nestor’s for Raquel, but already she had a blanket over the pinto, the bit in his mouth and her own saddle in place. They raced through the gate just as a party of marauders rode up to the front of the hacienda and surrounded the place. They rode breathlessly through the night, up into the foothills over a rocky trail. The heaving horses climbed as only a panic-pushed animal can. There was a short pursuit and shooting but Manuel shook it off by cutting sharply upward into the hills over this unfrequented path. At last a high road following the top of the mesa was reached. The horses stopped short, breathing violently. Georgie pressed close to his sister’s side.