up the hill,"
Floyd said. "The question is—can I?"

It was a question. The road was narrow, and the hill steep. If you have ever tried to turn a car around on a narrow, hilly road and crawl back up it, you will appreciate the position of Rosemary and her brother.

"If you can't make it in your car get out and hide!" advised the horseman, flinging this back over his shoulder as he rode on. "Those Yaquis are human devils!"

He was out of sight a moment later around a turn in the trail. Floyd speeded up the engine and began to guide the machine toward a place that looked wide enough to turn in. But that was the smallest part of the problem.

Just as he was making the turn there was a lurch to one side, and the right forward wheel sank into a ditch at the side of the road. The car settled so far over that Rosemary had to cling to Floyd to avoid sliding out, and she could not repress a scream.

"No going back now!" exclaimed Floyd grimly. "We're lucky if we can go ahead."

"Do something!" desperately cried Rosemary.

And then, with a suddenness that was nerve-racking, there swept around the bend in the road toward them a band of yelling Mexican Indians—the Yaquis!