“I remember I bought a new mole-skin suit, which was very popular about then.  I had nothing but a small hand-bag, and it contained only a six-shooter.  I bought a book to read on the train and on the road out, called ‘Other People’s Money.’  The title caught my fancy, and it was very interesting.  It was written by a Frenchman,—­full of love and thrilling situations.  I had the money belted on me securely, and started out with flying colors.  The railroad runs through a dreary country, not worth a second look, so I read my new book.  When I arrived at the station I found the conveyance awaiting me.  The plan was to drive halfway, and stay over night at a certain hacienda.

“The driver insisted on starting at once, telling me that we could reach the Hacienda Grande by ten o’clock that night, which would be half my journey.  We had a double-seated buckboard and covered the country rapidly.  There were two Mexicans on the front seat, while I had the rear one all to myself.  Once on the road I interested myself in ‘Other People’s Money,’ almost forgetful of the fact that at that very time I had enough of other people’s money on my person to set all the bandits in Mexico on my trail.  There was nothing of incident that evening, until an hour before sundown.  We reached a small ranchito, where we spent an hour changing horses, had coffee and a rather light lunch.

“Before leaving I noticed a Pinto horse hitched to a tree some distance in the rear of the house, and as we were expecting to buy a number of horses, I walked back and looked this one carefully over.  He was very peculiarly color-marked in the mane.  I inquired for his owner, but they told me that he was not about at present.  It was growing dusk when we started out again.  The evening was warm and sultry and threatening rain.  We had been on our way about an hour when I realized we had left the main road and were bumping along on a by-road.  I asked the driver his reason for this, and he explained that it was a cut-off, and that by taking it we would save three miles and half an hour’s time.  As a further reason he expressed his opinion that we would have rain that night, and that he was anxious to reach the hacienda in good time.  I encouraged him to drive faster, which he did.  Within another hour I noticed we were going down a dry arroyo, with mesquite brush on both sides of the road, which was little better than a trail.  My suspicions were never aroused sufficiently to open the little hand-bag and belt on the six-shooter.  I was dreaming along when we came to a sudden stop before what seemed a deserted jacal.  The Mexicans mumbled something to each other over some disappointment, when the driver said to me:—­