Polly did not reply. She peeped out of her collar and saw that Pachuca’s prophecy was fulfilled. They had ridden out of the area of the sand-storm and were getting into the foothills where the air was cold and clear. They faced the new moon which gave an eerie look to everything—the distant mountains, the foothills with their weird patches of vegetation, tall cacti and dark looking arroyos. Far, far in their rear could be seen the few feeble lights of Conejo. It began to dawn upon an awed Polly that she was doing not an unconventional but a distinctly risky thing.
What did she know about this good-looking boy who sat beside her, guiding the car so expertly through the ruts and chuck holes that chopped up the road? Suppose he turned out to be—she caught her breath angrily! He was no common Mexican but a gentleman and one was not afraid of men of one’s own class, she told herself. She would not be afraid. She hated people who were afraid. She was having a wonderful experience; the sort of an experience that girls read about but didn’t have, and she was going to enjoy it.
“I forgot to ask you if you had anything to eat,” said Juan Pachuca. “You didn’t, did you?”
“I had crackers,” said Polly. “What did you have?”
“I was more fortunate. I found my friend at dinner,” replied the young man.
“Where were you going when you met me?”
“Eventually to my ranch, but first to find you. I did not think you would stay with the Señora Morgan.”
Polly laughed in spite of herself.
“I couldn’t,” she confessed. “Do you know, she seemed to think it doubtful that Bob and Emma had come back to Athens? I wonder why?”
“Perhaps,” replied the Mexican, “she thought the country not quite safe for a young lady.”