“Well?” Clara smiled bravely. “There’s nothing to do but wait. Better let me talk to them; I have the language better in hand, I think. If it’s money they want we may as well give them what we have to buy our freedom.”
“By all means.” Hard grinned. “I’ve got ten dollars. It won’t buy much—even of freedom, I’m afraid.”
“Most of mine is in express checks, tucked away in a sheltered spot,” said Clara, frowning. “I don’t believe they’d want them—Pachuca didn’t. However, I have a little to offer.” She handed him her handbag.
Angel Gonzales, closely followed by Porfirio Cortes, drew up beside the odd-looking couple sitting by the wayside. The other men lingered within hearing. Angel opened the conversation in his native tongue.
“Who are you and where are you going?” he demanded, his shifty black eyes gleaming from his weather-beaten face.
“And why?” growled Cortes. “When the country is upset, the place for foreigners is at home.”
“Yes, we know it is,” said Clara, placatingly. “But your country, you know, is almost always upset. This gentleman, Señor Hard, is connected with the mining company at Athens. I am from the South, and on my way to the border.”
“Where are your horses?” said Angel, suspiciously.
“A young man named Juan Pachuca raided the ranch where we were visiting and took all the livestock,” replied Clara, eyeing the swarthy fellow quietly.
There was a hurried colloquy between the two Mexicans and a laugh from Gonzales.