Dazed with the suddenness of Benito’s announcement and its menacing augury, Inez sought her father and Adrian.  The latter acted instantly.  “Do not tell your wife,” he said to Windham.  “There may be nothing amiss.  And if there should be, she will find no profit in knowing.  Tell her you are called away and follow me to the square.  We will ride at once to the rancho.”

He pressed Inez’ hand and was gone.  “Take care of your mother,” he said over his shoulder, an admonition which Don Roberto repeated a moment later as he hurried out.  She was left alone in a maze of doubts, fears, speculations.  What was McTurpin doing in San Francisco?  Why had he and his companions ridden toward the Windham rancho?  There was only one answer.  Most of the vaqueros were at a fandango in the Mission.  Only the serving women and a few men too old for dancing remained at home.

Meawhile her brother, father, lover were speeding homeward, into what?  A trap?  An ambush?  Certainly to battle with a foe out-numbering them four to one.

At the Mission were a dozen of their servants; men whose fathers and grandfathers had ridden herd for her family.  Any one of them would give his life to serve a Windham.

Inez looked about her feverishly.  Should she ask O’Farrell to accompany her?  He was dancing with one of the Mormon women.  Brannan and Spear were not to be seen.  Leidesdorff was impossible in such an emergency.  Besides, she could not take him from his guests.  She would go alone, decided Inez.  Quietly she made her way to the cloak-room, in charge of an Indian servant, caught up her mantilla and riding crop and fled.  On the square her horse whinnied at her approach as if eager to be gone.  Swiftly she climbed into the saddle and spurred forward.

Far ahead gleamed the lights of the Mission.  They were making merry there with the games and dance of old Spain.  And to the south Benito, Adrian, her father, rode toward a battle with treacherous men.  Breathlessly she spurred her horse to greater effort.  Trees flashed by like witches in the dark.  Presently she heard the music of the fandango.

Another picture framed itself before her vision.  Excited faces round her.  A sudden stoppage of the music, a frocked priest making anxious inquiries.  Her own wild words; a jingle of spurs.  Then many hoofs pounding on the road beside her.

She never knew just what had happened, what she had said.  But now she felt the sting of the bay breeze in her face and Antonio’s steady hand upon her saddle pommel.

“Caramba!” he was muttering.  “The pig of a gringo once more.  And your father; the little Benito.  Hurry, comrades, faster! faster!  To the rescue!”

Came a third picture, finally more clear, more disconcerting.  The entrance to her father’s ranch barred by armed riders.  McTurpin smiling insolent in the moonlight, bowing to her while Antonio muttered in suppressed wrath.