t corner, they drew to one side. A company of troops swept by on
the double-quick. They had been in action. Their faces streamed with
sweat, and many were bleeding. A few wounded men were being carried by
their comrades. Rodman recognized _Capitan_ Morino, and shouted
desperately; but the officer shook his head wildly, and went on.

Then, they saw a group of officers at the door of a crude cafe. Among
them, Rodman recognized Colonel Martinez, of Vegas' staff, and Colonel
Murphy of the Foreign Legion, yet they stood here idle, and their
faces told the story of defeat. The filibuster hurled himself from the
saddle, and pushed his way to the group, followed by Saxon.

"What does it mean, Murphy?" he demanded, breathlessly. "What in all
hell can it mean?"

Murphy looked up. He was wrapping his wrist with a handkerchief, one
end of which he held between his teeth. Red spots were slowly
spreading on the white of the bandage.

"Sure, it means hell's broke loose," replied the soldier of fortune,
with promptness. Then, seeing Saxon, he shot him a quick glance of
recognition. The eyes were weary, and showed out of a face pasted with
sweat and dust.

"Hello, Carter," he found time to say. "Glad you're with us--but it's
all up with our outfit."

This time, Saxon did not deny the title.

"What happened?" urged Rodman, in a frenzy of anxiety. The roaring of
rifles did not seem to come nearer, except for detached sounds of
sporadic skirmishing. The central plaza and its environs were holding
the interest of the combatants.

"Sure, it means there was a leak. When the boys marched up to San
Francisco, they were met with artillery fire. It had been tipped off,
and the government had changed the garrison." The Irish adventurer,
who had led men under half a dozen tatterdemalion flags, smiled
sarcastically. "Sure, it was quite simple!"

"And where is the fighting?" shouted Rodman, as though he would hold
these men responsible for his shattered scheme of empire.

"Everywhere. Vegas was in too deep to pull out. The government
couldn't shell its own capital, and so it's street to street
scrappin' now. But we're licked unless--" He halted suddenly, with the
gleam of an inspired idea in his eyes. The leader of the Foreign
Legion was sitting on a table. Saxon noted for the first time that,
besides the punctured wrist, he was disabled with a broken leg.

"Unless what?" questioned Colonel Martinez. That officer was pallid
under his da