nfidentially at his prisoners. "Between friends,
it's ver' devilish unpleasant to do business with such a--what you
call--ruffian. But ver' necessar'. Oh, yes! Quite so."

"Depends on one's business, I expect," replied Farrar.

"You have said it, senor. A patriot can't be too particulair. He uses
the tools that come to his hands. But pardon! My tongue is like a
woman's. It runs away with time."

He called the guard and had the prisoners removed. They were put in the
same adobe hut where Yeager had been confined a few days earlier.

Threewit lit a cigar and paced up and down gloomily. "This is a hell of
a fix we're in. Before we get out of here the old man will be hollering
his head off for that 'Retreat of the Bandits' three-reeler."

The camera man laughed ruefully. "I ain't worrying any about the old
man. He's back there safe in little old New York. It's Frank Farrar
that's on my mind. How is he going to get out of here?"

The director stopped, took the cigar from his mouth, and looked across
questioningly at him.

"You don't really think Pasquale will hurt us, do you?"

"No; not unless the breaks go against us. I don't reckon Pasquale has
anything much against Yeager any more than he has against us. Of course,
Harrison will do his darndest to make him sore at us. Notice how he
tried to put it over that we had come about that bunch of cattle he
stole?"

"Sure I did. But it is not likely that Harrison is ace high in this
pack. What I'm afraid of is that the old general will soak us for a
ransom. He's nothing but an outlaw, anyhow."

Within the hour they were taken before Pasquale. He was still covered
with the dust of travel. His riding-gloves lay on the table where he had
tossed them. His soft white hat was on his head. As rapidly as possible
he was devouring a chicken dinner.

It was his discourteous whim to keep them waiting in the back of the
room until he had finished. They were offered no seats, but stood
against the wall under the eye of the guard who had brought them.

The general finished his bottle of wine before he turned savagely upon
them.

"You are friends of the Gringo Yeager. Not so?" he accused.

It was too late for a denial now. Threewit admitted the charge.

"So. Maldito! What are you doing here? I've had enough of you Yankees!"
he exploded.

Before Threewit had more than begun his explanations he brushed aside
the director's words.

"This Yeager is a devil. Did he not crawl up o