drily.

"No, we're not," replied Hard. "We're heading for the Soria place just at
present with the idea of borrowing their burro to ride and tie." He had
risen and was leaning heavily on his well leg.

"Humph! It is a long walk to the Soria place," grunted Angel. "You're
lame?"

"Yes, temporarily."

"Humph!" Angel turned to his men. "Here, two of you double up and give
these people horses," he commanded curtly. Apparently, he was one of those
leaders whose word is law, for two of the men rolled their horses and led
them toward the two Americans who stared at them in astonishment.

"We go by Soria's," said Angel, gruffly. "We will take you that far."

"Thank you, but I think----" Clara began weakly, but stopped as she felt
herself being seized by one of the men and lifted roughly to the saddle of
a wiry little gray horse which was dancing around in a most disconcerting
manner. It was a time for self-preservation and not for protest. She
grasped the pommel desperately with one hand and the reins with the other,
while her feet were being thrust into the straps of the stirrups--the
stirrups themselves being too long.

She was badly scared, for the horse gave every indication of being
unmanageable; and very miserable, for her skirt pulled in a most
uncomfortable and unsightly fashion. There was nothing to do, however, but
to make the best of it; for having helped her mount, the man who did so
climbed up back of one of his fellows and abandoned her to her fate. Hard,
in the meantime, had mounted another rough-looking but more conventionally
disposed beast, and the procession started back to the road, the two
Americans side by side, surrounded by the Mexicans; Angel Gonzales
leading, and Porfirio Cortes bringing up the rear.

"It may be a friendly lift, but it looks more like a case of abduction,"
said Hard, wrathfully. "Can you hold that brute, Clara?"

"I hope so," she said, her lips a bit white. "I think the poor thing is as
scared as I am; probably never saw skirts before in his life."

"Don't try to hold him too tight. He's probably got a tender mouth,
judging from the way he fidgets."

"Well, I suppose he has, but if I don't hold him, he's going to land me
over somewhere in those foothills," said Clara, faintly. "He's got the
most awful little rack I ever rode. Henry, do you suppose that fellow is
Angel Gonzales?"

"Can't say. He's an ugly-looking ruffian whoever he is."

"Hush, here he comes! He may unde