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Updated: June 10, 2025
I asked him something just kind of casual about pies and you'd have said he'd never heard of one. Distant as anything! I suppose I can stand it if he cures Jimmy. Where you going?" "Going to walk to Conejo." "Walk!" Tom repeated his plan. Mrs. Van wiped her eyes on the dish towel. "You're a good man," she said, simply. "I wish I could go with you."
"I think you must be Señorita Street?" mused the young man. "Oh," Polly dimpled pleasantly. "You know Bob then?" Juan Pachuca's dark eyes smiled. "Not exactly but I have met him. Me, I have a place south of Conejo quite a long way I am what you might call a long-distance neighbor. My name is Pachuca Juan Pachuca." "I see. Are you in the mining business, too?" "Not now.
Polly did not realize, though she was not in the habit of underrating her attractions, how very noticeable she was in that environment, as she stood there, her tan traveling coat thrown open showing her dainty white waist, her short, trim skirt with its big plaid squares, and her neat brown silk stockings and oxfords. Conejo had not seen her like in many moons and it stared its full.
"You see," he continued, "they take the first car over to Conejo and then come back for us." "Do you mean to say that they'll leave us here, perched on the side of this hill, while they run off with the engine?" demanded Polly, eyeing the trainmen indignantly. In fact, she was so busy being indignant with them that she omitted to notice that the young man had slipped into the seat opposite her.
"She'd ought to if she marries an Englishman," replied O'Grady, belligerently. "But don't she get it back if he dies?" "Hanged if I know! Woman's suffrage has come up since I left home," replied Johnson, placidly. "Anyhow, I'm going to walk to Conejo and see if I can't find out something about Casa Grande." "Walk? Holy Moses! I'll go with you." "No, you won't.
The little car justified its owner's faith in it, however, for it went along at a good clip. The road from Conejo was fairly good and they made good time. The sun was down and the evening had set when they reached the place where Scott and Polly had taken the trail. Mendoza stopped the car. "Lots of men been by here," he said. "Soldiers or bandits mebbe bot'."
"You see, the regular road runs fairly straight along toward Conejo for maybe twenty miles, and then meets a crossroad which runs past Casa Grande," explained Scott. "Now, with this trail, we cut directly across those foothills, over a couple of ranges of mountains, across a big mesa and down. Casa Grande is almost in a straight line from here and we cut off a lot."
Somebody's got to stay here and look after Mrs. Van and Jimmy. The Doc can't fight and Williams don't think of anything but the store. You and Miller have got to do the rest." "Why don't you go to Casa Grande? It's nearer." "What's the use? What could I do? If I go to Conejo, I can pick up Mendoza and his car and mebbe some fellers to go along and make a posse.
It is a small town, does not even boast of a railroad connection nearer than twenty-five or thirty miles, being, like Conejo, on a bi-weekly spur; but it is a town of reputation and a not altogether blameable civic pride. It has borne its part in the border warfare with credit. It has slaughtered and been slaughtered, one might say, and rather enjoyed both proceedings.
"Anyone; I shouldn't be surprised if it were the Bishop of Madrid-Alcala." El Conejo was a very intelligent looking person; he had a long face, a curved nose, a broad forehead, tiny, sparkling eyes and a reddish beard that tapered to a point, like a goat's.
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