“Yesterday we had news from the hills that the Yaquis were raiding again,” he said to Benson. “Two prospectors were killed, not fifty miles from Los Andes. A bridge on the main line is down. The troops cannot be there for twenty-four hours.” Benson nodded comprehendingly. “Same old trouble, ain’t it? I wonder these Yaquis wouldn’t get tired. We’ll fix them up good for you if they come.” These formalities of international law having been settled, all again boarded the train, and a slow hour’s run toward the west brought them to Los Andes. The inhabitants of this sleepy little town of Old Mexico thronged about the station and welcomed their prospective rescuers with enthusiasm. Loud cries of “_Vivan Los Americanos!_” echoed from end to end of the platform, as the men swarmed out of the train. Soon the men were assigned to quarters in the various houses and shops. The plaza before the cathedral in the center of the town became, for probably the first time in its existence, a scene of activity. As Benson was completing the disposition of his men, a Mexican ranch owner rode up to him. “The Señor is the _comandante_?” he asked in broken English. “Sure, Mike, _Seguro Miguel_—Fire away!” answered Benson. The ranchman looked puzzled, then commenced to explain his errand. His ranch, it appeared, was situated some twenty miles outside the town, in the direction from which the Yaquis were expected, and his ranchmen were all absent upon the range. He asked for five or six men to defend his _hacienda_: Benson waved his hand airily, in feeble imitation of the Mexican’s grand manner: “_’Sta ’ueno_, you shall have them.” Turning, he saw Loring, who had been listening to the talk. Benson was accustomed to judging men quickly, and he was rarely deceived. A quick survey of Loring’s face satisfied him. “He is no quitter, anyhow,” he thought, “and at present his moral character don’t matter.” He called to Loring: “Say, you Mr. What’s-your-name, you get four other men and go with this chap to his ranch!” “Have you _caballos_ for them here?” Benson asked the ranchman. “Sí, sí, I can procure them at once,” exclaimed Señor Hernandez. “And my gratitude, it is eternal.” “Never mind that,” said Benson, turning away. A very short while sufficed for Stephen to find four volunteers to accompany them, and within an hour the little party was riding out of the town to the southward, where lay the ranch and the threatened pass. The country was desolation itself, rocky ground covered with layers of dust and sand. All was gray in color. The little clusters of sage-brush, all dried and lifeless in the heat, made no change in the gray hue. The road was merely a track across the desert, beaten by chance horsemen or cattle. Along this the horses scuffled, sending up clouds of alkali dust into the air for the benefit of the riders who were behind.