over
boulders, through brush, falling ever faster as he tried to regain a
foothold.

Both bridles had been wrenched from his hand as he fell and the horses,
half scared, half inquisitive, followed him a few steps and then returned
to the munching of grass, behind the clump of brush.

Angel Gonzales, a large, brutal-looking man, his face covered with a black
beard, his clothes bearing the mark of many a scuffle, swung down the
trail in the lead, his particular crony, one Porfirio Cortes, riding
immediately after him. A little distance intervened between Cortes and the
other members of the party. Even in bandit circles the line is drawn
somewhere, and in Angel's band it was drawn immediately after Porfirio
Cortes.

Angel rode, one leg thrown over his pommel, which enabled him to chat
comfortably with Cortes. They were talking of Juan Pachuca.

"A slippery one, that," Cortes had remarked, keenly. "I don't believe he
means to throw in his lot with us. When I see him do it, I will
believe--not before."

"Why not? I have more men than he has. He needs men. All he has is this
understanding that he brags of with the new government."

"Lies, _amigo_, lies! His record with Carranza is against him."

"Well, all men lie," replied Angel, tersely, and with probably no
intention of plagiarism. "Anyhow, we can do some good fighting together.
There will be some fine pickings when we get the old man out of Mexico
City. Think of the money, the fine clothes, the women!"

"Yes, I think of them," replied Cortes, meditatively. "But I think also of
Obregon. I hate that man. He hung a cousin of mine, once, for less than
what you and I did to those Yaquis. Also, he has persecuted Villa."

"Well, so will I persecute Villa if I ever get a chance," replied Angel,
cheerfully. "The fat thief! Think of the gold he has hidden in these
mountains! Hold--what is that? Down in the canyon? Horses! Is it troops,
do you think?"

"Troops--in a hole like that? It might be those Indians--an ambush!"

"It would be like the devils. I don't see them now."

"You saw Soria's burro, most likely. Your nerves are bad, as the gringos
say." Both men grinned and rode on. Suddenly, they heard a crashing sound
of scattering stones that rose even above the noise made by their horses.
Angel threw up his head in alarm, very much as a horse does when he scents
danger. "It is the Indians," he said to Porfirio. "We must not be attacked
in this narrow place. Forward!