ere; to give you back what's yours is only the right thing to
do. How many bushels did we steal? Ten? Sure it wasn't more than ten?
... That's right, about fifteen, eh? Or was it twenty, perhaps? ... Try
and remember, friend.... Of course you're a poor man, aren't you, and
you've a lot of kids to raise.... Yes, twenty it was. All right, now!
It's not ten or fifteen or twenty I'm going to give you. You're going
to count for yourself.... One, two, three ... and when you've had
enough you just tell me and I'll stop.' And Blondie pulled out his
sword and beat him till he cried for mercy."

War Paint rocked in her saddle, convulsed with mirth. Camilla, unable
to control herself, blurted out:

"The beast! His heart's rotten to the core! No wonder I loathe him!"

At once War Paint's expression changed.

"What the hell is it to you!" she scowled. Camilla, frightened, spurred
her horse forward. War Paint did likewise and, as she trotted past
Camilla, suddenly she reached out, seized the other's hair and pulled
with all her might. Camilla's horse shied; Camilla, trying to brush her
hair back from over her eyes, abandoned the reins. She hesitated, lost
her balance and fell in the road, striking her forehead against the
stones.

War Paint, weeping with laughter, pressed on with utmost skill and
caught Camilla's horse.

"Come on, Tenderfoot; here's a job for you," Pancracio said as he saw
Camilla on Demetrio's saddle, her face covered with blood.

Luis Cervantes hurried toward her with some cotton; but Camilla,
choking down her sobs and wiping her eyes, said hoarsely:

"Not from you! If I was dying, I wouldn't accept anything from you ...
not even water."

In Cuquio Demetrio received a message.

"We've got to go back to Tepatitlan, General," said Luis Cervantes,
scanning the dispatch rapidly. "You've got to leave the men there while
you go to Lagos and take the train over to Aguascalientes."

There was much heated protest, the men muttering to themselves or even
groaning out loud. Some of them, mountaineers, swore that they would
not continue with the troop.

Camilla wept all night. On the morrow at dawn, she begged Demetrio to
let her return home.

"If you don't like me, all right," he answered sullenly.

"That's not the reason. I care for you a lot, really. But you know how
it is. That woman ..."

"Never mind about her. It's all right! I'll send her off to hell today.
I had already decided that."

Camilla drie