“There is the house,” Pedro at length explained, pointing to a fine appearing place on the top of a small hill. “It’s only a couple of miles farther.”
So interested had the boys become in what Pedro was telling them that they had paid very little attention to the rest of the company, until, as they rounded a turn in the now rocky road, Adrian discovered that the man who had made all the trouble had disappeared. Adrian quickly turned and rode back a few rods to where he could get an unobstructed view of the road behind, and there was Mr. Mexican riding away as fast as his horse could carry him.
“What shall we do?” queried Adrian, as soon as he had called the others back.
“Nothing, I should say,” was Donald’s advice. “It looks like the question of who was right and who wrong had settled itself. I say good riddance. What do you say, Pedro?”
“I say let him go. I don’t want him; but I should like to know who he is.” Then to the peons: “Do you know who he is?”
The peons looked stupidly at each other, but made no reply.
“Why don’t you answer?” asked Donald sharply. “Who is that man?”
“Quien sabe!” was the exasperating answer, as the men shrugged their shoulders in a manner which reminded Billie so much of a vaudeville act that he burst into a hearty laugh.
“Quien sabe!” he repeated. “Well, I know enough Spanish to understand that they don’t know. But why don’t they know?”
“It’s too deep for me,” replied Adrian. “The whole affair is too mysterious for anyone but a Sherlock Holmes to ferret out; but there is certainly no need of our going any farther in this direction, and I move that we start back.”