he least promise of entertainment. There was nothing to
distinguish them from the usual sun-baked rancheros of the Huasteca,
unless it were the first man's straw sombrero, the heavy silver mounting
of which must have been worth in bullion alone a fair pocketful of
pesos. There was a cord of silver hanging over the broad brim, and there
was a silver "T" on one side of the sugar loaf, an "M" on the other
side, and a Roman sword in front, and all three were linked together in
fanciful silver scrolls. But the rest of the man was wretched. His feet
were encased in the guaraches, or sandals, of a peon. One of his eyes
was so crossed that hardly more than a baleful crescent was ever
visible. The other vaquero, his companion, had no relieving trait at
all, either luxurious or strikingly evil. His breeches of raw leather
flapped loosely from the knee down, and at the sides they were slit,
revealing the dirty white of cotton calzoncillos beneath. Though the
April morning was hot, a crimson serape covered his shoulders. Both men
had pistols, and each also had a long machete two inches wide hanging
with a lariat from his saddle.

They lifted their sombreros, and he of the gorgeous one inquired if that
were Don Anastasio's outfit coming up behind. A civil answer was merest
traveler's courtesy, and Driscoll reluctantly took his cob pipe from his
mouth to reckon that they were pretty nearly correct. He might have
loaned them a thousand dollars, to judge from their gratitude, and they
made way for him by drawing off the trail entirely. Here they halted
till all the burros and horses had gone by. The muleteers in passing
them, confusedly touched their hats. Murguia, who was then in the rear,
stopped when he saw the two strangers. Driscoll looked back, but judged
from the greetings that the three were old acquaintances. The
assiduously respectful bearing of the timorous old man was to be counted
as only habitual. And when he saw one of Don Anastasio's mozos bring a
bottle and glasses, he was completely reassured, and rested like the
others of the caravan some little distance ahead.

Murguia dismissed the mozo, himself poured the cognac, and begged the
honor of drinking health and many pesetas to his two "friends." They
craved a like boon, and the clinking of the copitas followed
ceremoniously.

"I counted three hundred and sixty-eight half-bales," said he of the
crossed eye, with a head cocked sideways and tilted. The evidence was
aga