“I am his wife,” interrupted Madeline.  “Will you please read these.”  She handed him the telegrams.  “Advise me—­help me, if you can?”

With a wondering glance at her the officer received the telegrams.  He read several, and whistled low in amaze.  His manner became quick, alert, serious.

“I can’t read these written in Spanish, but I know the names signed.”  Swiftly he ran through the others.

“Why, these mean Stewart’s release has been authorized.  They explain mysterious rumors we have heard here.  Greaser treachery!  For some strange reason messages from the rebel junta have failed to reach their destination.  We heard reports of an exchange for Stewart, but nothing came of it.  No one departed for Mezquital with authority.  What an outrage!  Come, I’ll go with you to General Salazar, the rebel chief in command.  I know him.  Perhaps we can find out something.”

Nels made room for the officer.  Link sent the car whirring across the line into Mexican territory.  Madeline’s sensibilities were now exquisitely alive.  The white road led into Agua Prieta, a town of colored walls and roofs.  Goats and pigs and buzzards scattered before the roar of the machine.  Native women wearing black mantles peeped through iron-barred windows.  Men wearing huge sombreros, cotton shirts and trousers, bright sashes round their waists, and sandals, stood motionless, watching the car go by.  The road ended in an immense plaza, in the center of which was a circular structure that in some measure resembled a corral.  It was a bull-ring, where the national sport of bull-fighting was carried on.  Just now it appeared to be quarters for a considerable army.  Ragged, unkempt rebels were everywhere, and the whole square was littered with tents, packs, wagons, arms.  There were horses, mules, burros, and oxen.

The place was so crowded that Link was compelled to drive slowly up to the entrance to the bull-ring.  Madeline caught a glimpse of tents inside, then her view was obstructed by a curious, pressing throng.  The cavalry officer leaped from the car and pushed his way into the entrance.

“Link, do you know the road to this Mezquital?” asked Madeline.

“Yes.  I’ve been there.”

“How far is it?”

“Aw, not so very far,” he mumbled.

“Link!  How many miles?” she implored.

“I reckon only a few.”

Madeline knew that he lied.  She asked him no more; nor looked at him, nor at Nels.  How stifling was this crowded, ill-smelling plaza!  The sun, red and lowering, had sloped far down in the west, but still burned with furnace heat.  A swarm of flies whirled over the car.  The shadows of low-sailing buzzards crossed Madeline’s sight.  Then she saw a row of the huge, uncanny black birds sitting upon the tiled roof of a house.  They had neither an air of sleeping nor resting.  They were waiting.  She fought off a horrible ghastly idea before its full