“Wal, now, Flo, you needn’t pitch into me jest because I hev a natural Christian spirit,” replied Stillwell, much aggrieved.  “I reckon I’ve hed enough trouble in my life so’s not to go lookin’ fer more.  Wal, I’m sorry about the hay burnin’.  But mebbe the boys saved the stock.  An’ as fer that ole adobe house of dark holes an’ under-ground passages, so long’s Miss Majesty doesn’t mind, I’m darn glad it burned.  Come, let’s all turn in again.  Somebody’ll ride over early an’ tell us what’s what.”

Madeline awakened early, but not so early as the others, who were up and had breakfast ready when she went into the dining-room.  Stillwell was not in an amiable frame of mind.  The furrows of worry lined his broad brow and he continually glanced at his watch, and growled because the cowboys were so late in riding over with the news.  He gulped his breakfast, and while Madeline and the others ate theirs he tramped up and down the porch.  Madeline noted that Alfred grew nervous and restless.  Presently he left the table to join Stillwell outside.

“They’ll slope off to Don Carlos’s rancho and leave us to ride home alone,” observed Florence.

“Do you mind?” questioned Madeline.

“No, I don’t exactly mind; we’ve got the fastest horses in this country.  I’d like to run that big black devil off his legs.  No, I don’t mind; but I’ve no hankering for a situation Gene Stewart thinks—­”

Florence began disconnectedly, and she ended evasively.  Madeline did not press the point, although she had some sense of misgiving.  Stillwell tramped in, shaking the floor with his huge boots; Alfred followed him, carrying a field-glass.

“Not a hoss in sight,” complained Stillwell.  “Some-thin’ wrong over Don Carlos’s way.  Miss Majesty, it’ll be jest as well fer you an’ Flo to hit the home trail.  We can telephone over an’ see that the boys know you’re comin’.”

Alfred, standing in the door, swept the gray valley with his field-glass.

“Bill, I see running stock-horses or cattle; I can’t make out which.  I guess we’d better rustle over there.”

Both men hurried out, and while the horses were being brought up and saddled Madeline and Florence put away the breakfast-dishes, then speedily donned spurs, sombreros, and gauntlets.

“Here are the horses ready,” called Alfred.  “Flo, that black Mexican horse is a prince.”

The girls went out in time to hear Stillwell’s good-by as he mounted and spurred away.  Alfred went through the motions of assisting Madeline and Florence to mount, which assistance they always flouted, and then he, too, swung up astride.

“I guess it’s all right,” he said, rather dubiously.  “You really must not go over toward Don Carlos’s.  It’s only a few miles home.”

“Sure it’s all right.  We can ride, can’t we?” retorted Florence.  “Better have a care for yourself, going off over there to mix in goodness knows what.”