at you, sort of surprised to see folks around so
early in the morning; some of 'em still lying down and napping. Around
here raising cattle hasn't been very popular the last few years--too
hazardous."

"Miss Polly, I want you to notice that funny little house over there,"
said Hard, pointing to his right.

"Where?"

Indeed, there was reason for the question. The little cabin had been built
tightly against a hill, with the hill scooped out to make the back part. A
closer look revealed a burro standing on the roof beside the chimney.

"Well, that's the first time I ever saw a burro on a roof!" declared
Polly. "Who lives there?"

"A Mexican family named Soria," replied Hard. "I'll go over and see if
they know anything about the fighting last night."

"You won't need to," said Scott. "Here comes the whole population."

So it seemed. There was an old woman--very old, very thin and very brown;
a younger one, half a dozen youngsters, several dogs and finally the
burro. The family were clad in every sort of decrepit garment. Polly
thought she had rarely seen so pitiful an assemblage; and yet they did not
look particularly unhappy, except the younger woman, who hung back and
seemed to have been crying. They had seen the wagon and had come out to
find out what was going on. The older woman came directly to the wagon,
while the younger one stood a little way off, a baby in her arms, and the
other children hanging around her. She was rather a pretty woman, or would
have been with half a chance. It is difficult to be pretty when your hair
hangs in straggling locks, your too plump figure festoons itself around
you in bags, and your clothes look as though you had never had them off
since you first became acquainted with them. Poor things, they lead an
awful life.

"I'll let you speak to her, Clara," Hard said, with a smile. "I think your
Spanish is in better working order than mine. Ask after the daughter's
husband; he's in the army and it may open the way for a little
information."

Mrs. Conrad spoke in rapid and soft-sounding Spanish to the old woman who
stood listening, her wrinkled face set in the monotony of hopelessness.

"How beautifully she speaks Spanish!" thought Polly, enviously. "I don't
understand a word of it, but even I can tell the difference between hers
and the kind that both the men speak."

"Good-morning, my friend." Clara's voice was cheerful and pleasant. "How
is the family?"

"Badly, senora, very