They did not rest even during siesta, only stopping long enough for Carlitos to mend his car with a piece of wire and what Janice supposed must be much Spanish profanity. The journey was getting on the Mexican's nerves as it was upon that of his passengers.
At certain places they were stopped by rough-looking men—some of them armed. Carlitos made his explanations in his own tongue. Tom Hotchkiss was growing visibly panic-stricken. He had doubtless been afraid of arrest on the United States side of the Border; but the appearance of these bands of seemingly masterless vagabonds frightened the runaway storekeeper from Polktown still more.
It was mid-afternoon and the automobile was limping along through a wild valley, when above the coughing of the engine Janice heard the rat-a-plan of hoofbeats. She looked around earnestly, and finally spied a company of horsemen charging cross-country toward the trail the automobile was following.
"Oh! who are those?" she cried, leaning forward to place her hand on Carlitos' shoulder.
He looked up, saw the cavalcade, and jerked the steering wheel a little. They bumped into a bowlder, the car shot back, and then the engine died with an awful rattle.
"Carramba!" sputtered Carlitos. "We have the accident now—yes, huh?"
"But who are those men?" repeated Janice. "They see us. They are coming this way."
Carlitos stood up to look. He shrugged his shoulders.
"That is Dario Gomez riding in their lead. He is a great bandit chief, señorita. Now we are—what you call?—in for it—by goodness, yes!"