“Pretty hot, to-day,” Starr observed, when he had emptied the can and put it back.  He turned and pulled the reins up along Rabbit’s neck and took the stirrup in his hand.

“Oh, won’t you stop—­for lunch?  It’s a long way to town.”  Helen May flushed behind her sunburn, but she felt that the law of the desert demanded some show of hospitality.

“Thanks, I must be getting on,” said Starr, touched his hat brim and rode away.  He had a couple of fried-ham sandwiches in his pocket, and he ought to make the Medina ranch by two o’clock, he reminded himself philosophically.  A woman on Johnny Calvert’s claim was disconcerting.  What was she there for, anyway?  From the way she spoke about Johnny, she couldn’t be his wife, or if she were, she had a grudge against him.  She didn’t look like the kind of a girl that would marry the Johnny Calvert kind of a man.  Maybe she was just stopping there for a day or so, with her folks.  Still, that white curtain at the window looked permanent, somehow.

Starr studied the puzzle from all angles.  He might have stayed and had his curiosity satisfied, but it was second nature with Starr to hide any curiosity he might feel; his riding matter-of-factly away, as though the girl were a logical part of the place, was not all bashfulness.  Partly it was habit.  He wondered who Vic was—­man, woman or child?  Man, he guessed, since she was probably calling for help with the horned toad, Starr grinned when he thought of her naming it a Gila Monster.  If she had ever seen one of those babies!  She must certainly be new to the country, if she didn’t even know a horned toad when she saw one!  What was she doing there, anyway?  Starr meant to find out.  It was his business to find out, and besides, he wanted to know.

CHAPTER FIVE

A GREASE SPOT IN THE SAND

Starr, took his cigarette from his lips, sent an oblique glance of mental measurement towards his host, and shifted his saddle-weary person to a more comfortable position on the rawhide covered couch.  He had eaten his fill of frijoles and tortillas and a chili stew hot enough to crisp the tongue.  He had discussed the price of sheep and had with much dickering bought fifty dry ewes at so much on foot delivered at the nearest shipping point.  He had given what news was public talk, of the great war and the supposedly present whereabouts of Villa, and what was guessed would happen if Mexican money went any lower.

On his own part, Estancio Medina, called Estan for short, had talked very freely of these things.  Villa, he was a bad one, sure.  He would yet make trouble if some_body_ didn’t catch him, yes.  For himself, Estan Medina, he was glad to be on this side the border, yes.  The American government would let a poor man alone, yes.  He could have his little home and his few sheep, and no_body_ would take them away.  Villa, he was a bad one!  All Mexicans must sure hate Villa—­even the