“Do you think he ought to say there?” demanded Polly, as Scott helped her into the wagon.
“No, I don’t, but he’s obstinate and you can’t move him once he makes up his mind. There’s a lot of the woman in every artistic man, I believe,” grunted Scott, disgustedly.
A little later, with the two Athens horses hitched to the mountain wagon, the party started out, Hard driving. The road led out through the hills where the fighting had been only a few hours ago. There was no sign of what had happened. It was a poor road, narrow, rough and little used. There were ruts in it and chuck-holes, turns and an occasional arroyo. It was rather ghostly, too, driving at this hour; the chill, early morning feel of the air, the fading moon, the faint pinkness hanging over the mountains suggesting the coming dawn.
“One thing you miss around here is the cattle,” said Scott. “Up in New Mexico you’d be starting out this time in the morning and you’d see the range cattle looking 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.”