hearts. Yet their own Government did not think enough of them to offer them
the sure protection they were entitled to.

Gilbert looked back on that distant day when he had gone up to Bisbee and
purchased four head of cattle, and brought them himself to this ranch he
had purchased, happy as only a fool is happy. Within a week they had
mysteriously disappeared.

Rumors of Mexican thieves and assassins had come to him, as they had come
to all the young land-owners along the line. He recalled how, after one
raid, in which a good citizen had been foully murdered in his bed, he had
called a meeting of the ranchers in their section, and with one voice they
agreed to send a protest to Washington.

They did so. Nothing happened. An aching silence followed. They wrote
again; and then one day a pale acknowledgment of their communication came
in one of those long and important-looking unstamped envelopes. It seemed
very official, very impressive. But mere looks never helped any cause. They
were not naïve enough to expect the Secretary of State to come down in
person and see to the mending of things. But a platoon of soldiers--a
handful of troops--would have worked wonders. Jones always contended that
not a shot would have to be fired; no more deaths on either side would be
necessary. The mere presence of a few men in uniform would have the desired
effect. The bandits, now prowling about, would slink over the invisible
border to their own territory, and never be heard of again. Of that he felt
confident.

But no! Watchful waiting was the watchword--or the catchword. And the
eternal and infernal raids went on.