“Exactly. You can’t tell about these fellows down here. Maybe Pachuca would have brought you over here safe and sound, and maybe he would have taken the south fork of the road down yonder and carried you off to his ranch to hold for a ransom.”
“Oh,” said Polly, faintly, “what a dreadful country!”
“Well, it’s no place for tenderfeet. That’s what I’m always telling our neighbor—Herrick, over at Casa Grande. Bob ever write you about him?”
“Bob never writes me about anything—except Emma,” said the girl. “But Mr. Adams has been telling me about him. Does he live there all alone?”
“No, he’s got a Chinese boy to cook for him and a lot of greasers working on the place, but no white men around.”
“I wish I could meet him.”
“You can. I’ll drive you over there any time you say.”
Polly’s face hardened. “I won’t bother you,” she said. “I don’t know how long I’ll stay here. I want to telegraph Bob.”
“I told Johnson to wire him from Conejo,” said Scott, a bit coolly on his side. “He may bring the return message back with him to-night.”
Polly felt suddenly ashamed of herself. She rose and held out her hand.