ng figure of a small Mexican boy, mounted on an equally small
pony.

"Hello, Jose!" she called, as the two came within speaking distance of
each other; "Do you know whether the East Bound has passed yet or not?"

"See there," said the boy, pointing in the direction from which he had
come. "Something wrong with engine. She been there three hours. My
father tell me, and I go see."

"How exciting!" cried Marjorie, everything else forgotten for the moment
in the interest of this news. "Do you think she'll stay much longer?"

Jose shook his head; he could not say. He was a rather dull boy, but
Marjorie had known him all her life, as she had known every inhabitant,
Mexican or Indian, who had made a home in that desolate region. She
could speak Spanish almost as well as English, and could carry on a
conversation in two Indian dialects. She did not wait for any more
conversation with Jose on this occasion, however, but with a chirp to
Roland to indicate that she wished to go faster, hurried the pony along
at such a pace that in less than five minutes they came in sight of the
waiting train.

No, she was not too late. The long transcontinental express was standing
still, and a number of the passengers had left the cars and were
sauntering leisurely about. Marjorie's heart beat fast with excitement,
and she drew the pony in sharply.

"We mustn't go too near, Roland," she whispered. "Oh, look, isn't it
interesting? See those girls in shirt-waists and straw hats. They look
just about my age. How I should like to speak to them, but I suppose
they would think it queer."

The sight of a girl in a striped khaki skirt, with a sombrero on her
head, sitting astride a bay pony, had quickly attracted the attention of
some of the passengers, and Marjorie soon realized that she was being
stared at in a manner that was slightly disconcerting. Not that she was
in the least shy, but these strangers had a way of looking at her, as
if they found something amusing in her appearance, and Marjorie did not
like being stared at any more than any other girl.

"I don't think we'll stay any longer, Roland," she said, conscious of
the fact that her cheeks were burning uncomfortably. And turning the
pony's head abruptly, she galloped away in the direction of home.

But it was some minutes before her cheeks had regained their natural
color.

"I wonder why they stared so," she kept repeating to herself. "Was it
the sombrero--I don't suppose girls