ARECIBO was thirty-five miles away, when Elbert received this news. He did fifteen miles more that day, and the next mid-afternoon when he was close to the town where Monte Vallejo was said to be held, a most inviting level stretch of turf showed ahead. Mamie did not miss the fact. She had been well rested in San Isidro; her fitness brought to a fine point, which two full days’ work had not dulled. She was teasing at the man’s arm, at this very moment, and rising under him, as a small boat in open sailing after the drag of a breakwater. She took the gallop and Elbert wasn’t so hard to persuade, as she stretched out, loosening her mouth from the restraint of his hand. There was a laugh on his lips, as he let her go. These were some of their best moments together, and this particular dash promised to be a jewel among them--only in the lee of a big boulder as he flicked round a bend, stood one of the rurales at ‘raise pistol,’ and a snapping bark to halt from his throat. It took nearly a hundred yards for Mamie to slow down. Elbert turning her about at length, perceived the native trooper riding his way--one of Sonora’s finest--gunned, spurred, saber-sheathed on one side, carbine-booted on the other, a heavy cartridge-belt flung over left shoulder and under right arm. Around the mustacios was a restless, uncertain look. ‘Magnificent horse you ride, Señor.’ ‘She’s a good mare--just trying her out.’ ‘Had her long?’ ‘Oh, yes--’ but that didn’t seem to go with ‘just trying her out.’ The rurale was sizable for a Mexican; not so tall, but thick in proportion; heavy wrists, bulging forearms, thick, straight back. His pony looked small and desperate compared to Mamie, but kept going with outstretched head. ‘And where does the Señor travel?’ ‘The next town--Arecibo.’ ‘I also go to Arecibo.’ Mamie was now being regarded with even more than customary interest, back and forth, up and down, the rurale’s eye roving, so that it was with difficulty that he kept his mind upon conversation at this time. Still Elbert was used to this sort of thing, having frequently found himself judged as a caballero of some great and elaborate house by the horse he rode. ‘I have heard that the notorious Vallejo is being held in Arecibo,’ he began with sociable impulse. ‘Yes?’ questioned the trooper in return. Elbert wondered at the curious tone. This man had reservations. ‘I have been on the road for two days and possibly am misinformed,’ Elbert added carefully. ‘On the road--from where, Señor?’ ‘From San Isidro--’ The other’s hand jerked at his bridle-rein. Now Elbert began to realize that San Isidro was hardly a town to mention--so close to the gorge of the same name where the recent hold-up had taken place. The Mexican slowly pulled himself together to reply. ‘Monte Vallejo is not being held in Arecibo. In purgatorio, at this hour, so I trust. Ah, it was magnificent!’