The girls went out in time to hear Stillwell’s good-by as he mounted and spurred away. Alfred went through the motions of assisting Madeline and Florence to mount, which assistance they always flouted, and then he, too, swung up astride. “I guess it’s all right,” he said, rather dubiously. “You really must not go over toward Don Carlos’s. It’s only a few miles home.” “Sure it’s all right. We can ride, can’t we?” retorted Florence. “Better have a care for yourself, going off over there to mix in goodness knows what.” Alfred said good-by, spurred his horse, and rode away. “If Bill didn’t forget to telephone!” exclaimed Florence. “I declare he and Al were sure rattled.” Florence dismounted and went into the house. She left the door open. Madeline had some difficulty in holding Majesty. It struck Madeline that Florence stayed rather long indoors. Presently she came out with sober face and rather tight lips. “I couldn’t get anybody on the ’phone. No answer. I tried a dozen times.” “Why, Florence!” Madeline was more concerned by the girl’s looks than by the information she imparted. “The wire’s been cut,” said Florence. Her gray glance swept swiftly after Alfred, who was now far out of earshot. “I don’t like this a little bit. Heah’s where I’ve got to ‘figger,’ as Bill says.” She pondered a moment, then hurried into the house, to return presently with the field-glass that Alfred had used. With this she took a survey of the valley, particularly in the direction of Madeline’s ranch-house. This was hidden by low, rolling ridges which were quite close by. “Anyway, nobody in that direction can see us leave heah,” she mused. “There’s mesquite on the ridges. We’ve got cover long enough to save us till we can see what’s ahead.” “Florence, what—what do you expect?” asked Madeline, nervously. “I don’t know. There’s never any telling about Greasers. I wish Bill and Al hadn’t left us. Still, come to think of that, they couldn’t help us much in case of a chase. We’d run right away from them. Besides, they’d shoot. I guess I’m as well as satisfied that we’ve got the job of getting home on our own hands. We don’t dare follow Al toward Don Carlos’s ranch. We know there’s trouble over there. So all that’s left is to hit the trail for home. Come, let’s ride. You stick like a Spanish needle to me.” A heavy growth of mesquite covered the top of the first ridge, and the trail went through it. Florence took the lead, proceeding cautiously, and as soon as she could see over the summit she used the field-glass. Then she went on. Madeline, following closely, saw down the slope of the ridge to a bare, wide, grassy hollow, and onward to more rolling land, thick with cactus and mesquite. Florence appeared cautious, deliberate, yet she lost no time. She was ominously silent. Madeline’s misgivings took definite shape in the fear of vaqueros in ambush.