followed his example, and, spurring their horses forward, interposed between the boy and his pursuers.

“What’s all the trouble?” asked Donald in Spanish, as soon as the pursuing horsemen had come to a halt.

“He is running away from home,” replied one who seemed to be the leader, “and his uncle sent us to bring him back.”

“It isn’t so,” declared the lad, who had stopped his flight and had come up behind the boys. “Do not believe him, señores!”

Adrian turned at the sound of the lad’s voice. “Which are we to believe?” he asked.

“Believe me,” exclaimed the lad imploringly. “If you let them take me, I do not know what they will do with me.”

“Why are they chasing you?” asked Don.

“I don’t know, unless it is because they do not like my father.”

“Who is your father?”

“General Sanchez, of President Madero’s staff.”

“Who are these?” and Don pointed to the waiting horsemen.

“I don’t know who that man is,” replied the lad, pointing to the leader, “but the others are peons on my uncle’s hacienda.”

“Is this true?” asked Don, turning to the pursuers, while Billie and Adrian tenderly fondled their rifles.

“Partly,” replied the leader. “But you heard him say he did not know who I am. Well, I am one of his uncle’s closest friends. I learned this morning that Pedro,” and he pointed at the boy, “was getting into bad company, and so came out to look for him. I found him in bad company and told him he must come home with me. He refused and rode away. I then started after him. If I were not his uncle’s friend, do you think I would have his uncle’s peons with me?”

“It hardly seems so,” replied Donald; “but, if

you are such a good friend of his uncle, it’s a wonder he does not know you. How about that, Pedro,” and he again turned to the boy.

“It’s all a lie,” was the emphatic reply. “I was out watching the men at work at the foot of the mountains this morning, when this man rode up. He told me to come with him. Never having seen him, I refused, whereupon he threatened to flog me. I jumped on my horse and rode away. A few minutes later he came after me, making all sorts of threats. Then he summoned the peons and chased me. They seem to do everything he tells them, but I do not know why.”

“It sure is a queer mix-up,” said Donald to his companions, in English, “and I don’t know what to do.”

“I’ll tell you what,” exclaimed Billie, after the matter had been fully explained to him, “let’s all ride back to his uncle’s, wherever that is, and see what he says.”

“Why, sure,” said Donald. “Billie, you’ll make a judge some day. We’ll go at once.”

When the proposed plan was explained to the Mexicans, both sides to the controversy quickly acquiesced, and, turning their horses about, the combined parties started toward the mountains, Pedro leading the way.

The road ran along the bank of the Concho for a couple of miles, and then turned abruptly toward

the foothills. It was a beautiful valley, and the Broncho Rider Boys were much interested in the scenery. They passed several small groups of adobe houses, which Pedro explained were on his uncle’s estate, which seemed very large.

“There is the house,” Pedro at length explained, pointing to a fine appearing place on the top of a small hill. “It’s only a couple of miles farther.”

So interested had the boys become in what Pedro was telling them that they had paid very little attention to the rest of the company, until, as they rounded a turn in the now rocky road, Adrian discovered that the man who had made all the trouble had disappeared. Adrian quickly turned and rode back a few rods to where he could get an unobstructed view of the road behind, and there was Mr. Mexican riding away as fast as his horse could carry him.

“What shall we do?” queried Adrian, as soon as he had called the others back.

“Nothing, I should say,” was Donald’s advice. “It looks like the question of who was right and who wrong had settled itself. I say good riddance. What do you say, Pedro?”

“I say let him go. I don’t want him; but I should like to know who he is.” Then to the peons: “Do you know who he is?”

The peons looked stupidly at each other, but made no reply.

“Why don’t you answer?” asked Donald sharply. “Who is that man?”

“Quien sabe!” was the exasperating answer, as the men shrugged their shoulders in a manner which reminded Billie so much of a vaudeville act that he burst into a hearty laugh.

“Quien sabe!” he repeated. “Well, I know enough Spanish to understand that they don’t know. But why don’t they know?”

“It’s too deep for me,” replied Adrian. “The whole affair is too mysterious for anyone but a Sherlock Holmes to ferret out; but there is certainly no need of our going any farther in this direction, and I move that we start back.”

“You won’t have any trouble in getting home now, will you?” he asked, turning to Pedro.

“Oh, no; and are you going back to the Rio Brava?”

“To the what?” asked Donald.

“The Rio Brava.”

“He means the Rio Grande,” explained Adrian. “The Mexicans call it the Rio Brava, and that is the way it is on their maps. I saw one of their geographies once.”

“Then we’re going back to the Rio Brava,” laughed Billie, “and I hope we get there before it begins to rain.”

Whereupon, bidding good-by to Pedro, who was

most profound in his thanks, they started on their return ride.

They had not been riding more than half an hour before the clouds, which had been getting blacker and blacker, became so angry-looking that they determined to seek shelter, and turned their horses’ heads toward one of the little cluster of houses they had passed earlier in the day.

CHAPTER V.—A NIGHT IN A MEXICAN KITCHEN.

By the time the boys reached the little cluster of adobe buildings, the rain was descending in torrents, and, in spite of the tropical surroundings, the air was much too cold to be comfortable. As they approached the first house on the outskirts of the hamlet, the door opened and a blanketed peon, preceded by half a dozen dogs of all kinds and conditions, made his appearance. Rushing at the horses, the dogs made the neighborhood hideous with their barking, but they made no attempt to do more.

“What do you want?” called out the man, speaking in Spanish.

“Call off your dogs,” replied Donald, “so we can talk with you.”

The man did as requested, and the animals grouped themselves around him in the doorway.

“We want a place to get in out of the rain and something to eat,” Donald continued, as soon as the barking had ceased.

“There is no place here,” replied the peon.

“What is this building?” and Donald pointed at a small hut at one side, which was covered with a thatched roof.

“It’s the kitchen.”

“What does he say?” asked Billie, who hadn’t been able to gain the faintest idea of the conversation.

“He says that’s the kitchen,” replied Adrian.

“Huh!” grunted Billie, “looks more like a pigpen.”

“What’s the matter with our going in there until it stops raining?” continued Donald, pressing his inquiries.

“You can go in there, if you want to, but there is nothing for you to eat.”

“No eggs?”

“No.”

“No tortillas?”

“No.”

“No frijolles?”

“No.”

“We will pay you well,”