he same moment, a burly figure rushed out of
the house near by, caught at the car as it started, clung to the
running-board and, leaning over, seized Pachuca by the arm.

It was Miller; Miller, who had indeed gone to bed, but whose bed was near
the window of the little cabin, and who had been keeping one eye on the
car and had emerged, scantily attired in a nightshirt tucked into a pair
of trousers, to put a spoke in the Mexican's wheel. Pachuca set his teeth!
It was too much--to be so near liberty and then to lose it. A desperate
look came into his eyes; he paid no attention to the angry demand of his
assailant that he stop the car, but, making a sudden lunge, he drove the
hunting-knife into the shoulder of the big man.

"Damn you, put up that knife!" choked Miller, seeing the blow coming but
not quickly enough to dodge it. With one hand clutching the car and one
holding Pachuca, he was too late to reach his gun. By the time he loosed
his hold on the Mexican, the knife had reached its mark; a knife none too
sharp, but driven by a practiced hand, it pierced the flesh, and with a
groan, Miller dropped off the running-board into the road.

Ah, the good car! Pachuca sang with joy as it leaped ahead into the
darkness. They would be awake in a moment, the lazy Gringos, but what of
it? He would be out of their reach. He laughed as he flew past the house
where Polly slept.

"Adieu, pretty American! I kiss your hand--until we meet again!"

Something struck the back of the car with a sharp, tearing sound. Pachuca
turned with a grin. A light had sprung up in the house into which he had
seen Scott go. With another chuckle, the young Mexican bent over the wheel
and whirled down the road toward freedom.

CHAPTER X

THE DISCOVERY

Marc Scott was slow in falling asleep on the night of Pachuca's escape. He
was in the habit of rolling over a few times and losing himself; but on
this particular night he was tormented by half a dozen ugly little
worries. He was worried about Adams, whose leg had a nasty look to the
unprofessional eye; he was worried about Pachuca, whose case was going to
require a good deal of finesse; and he was worried about Polly Street, who
had to be conveyed to the border, revolution or no revolution.

The most pressing danger on his horizon, Scott did not worry about because
he did not recognize it. He was like one of those patients in whose system
a deadly disease has started, but who remains in pe