“What’s wrong?” asked Alfred, rather stupidly. The change of mood had been too rapid for him. Suddenly he awakened, thoroughly aroused at the interruption. “I’m going to see who’s butted in here to spoil our dinner,” he said, and strode out. He returned before any one at the table had spoken or moved, and now the dull red of anger mottled his forehead. “It’s the sheriff of El Cajon!” he exclaimed, contemptuously. “Pat Hawe with some of his tough deputies come to arrest Gene Stewart. They’ve got that poor little Mexican girl out there tied on a horse. Confound that sheriff!” Madeline calmly rose from the table, eluding Florence’s entreating hand, and started for the door. The cowboys jumped up. Alfred barred her progress. “Alfred, I am going out,” she said. “No, I guess not,” he replied. “That’s no place for you.” “I am going.” She looked straight at him. “Madeline! Why, what is it? You look—Dear, there’s pretty sure to be trouble outside. Maybe there’ll be a fight. You can do nothing. You must not go.” “Perhaps I can prevent trouble,” she replied. As she left the patio she was aware that Alfred, with Florence at his side and the cowboys behind, were starting to follow her. When she got out of her room upon the porch she heard several men in loud, angry discussion. Then, at sight of Bonita helplessly and cruelly bound upon a horse, pale and disheveled and suffering, Madeline experienced the thrill that sight or mention of this girl always gave her. It yielded to a hot pang in her breast—that live pain which so shamed her. But almost instantly, as a second glance showed an agony in Bonita’s face, her bruised arms where the rope bit deep into the flesh, her little brown hands stained with blood, Madeline was overcome by pity for the unfortunate girl and a woman’s righteous passion at such barbarous treatment of one of her own sex. The man holding the bridle of the horse on which Bonita had been bound was at once recognized by Madeline as the big-bodied, bullet-headed guerrilla who had found the basket of wine in the spring at camp. Redder of face, blacker of beard, coarser of aspect, evidently under the influence of liquor, he was as fierce-looking as a gorilla and as repulsive. Besides him there were three other men present, all mounted on weary horses. The one in the foreground, gaunt, sharp-featured, red-eyed, with a pointed beard, she recognized as the sheriff of El Cajon. Madeline hesitated, then stopped in the middle of the porch. Alfred, Florence, and several others followed her out; the rest of the cowboys and guests crowded the windows and doors. Stillwell saw Madeline, and, throwing up his hands, roared to be heard. This quieted the gesticulating, quarreling men. “Wal now, Pat Hawe, what’s drivin’ you like a locoed steer on the rampage?” demanded Stillwell. “Keep in the traces, Bill,” replied Hawe. “You savvy what I come fer. I’ve been bidin’ my time. But I’m ready now. I’m hyar to arrest a criminal.”