"Don't like the looks of that," said Brevoort, as he pulled up his
horse. "It's out in front of the 'dobe--and it means the Ortez has got
company."

"Soldiers?"

"Looks like it."

"Arguilla's men?"

"I reckon so. And they're up pretty clost to the line--too clost to
suit me. We'll ride round and do our talkin' with Ortez."

"Ain't they friendly?" queried Pete.

"Friendly, hell! Any one of 'em would knife you for the hoss you're
ridin'! Hear 'em sing! Most like they're all drunk--and you know what
that means. Just follow along slow; and whatever you run into don't
get off your hoss."

"Ain't them there coyotes friendly to Ortez?"

"S' long as he feeds 'em. But that don't do us no good. Ought to be
some of the Ortez riders hangin' round somewhere. They don't mix much
with Arguilla's men."

"She's a lovely lay-out," said Pete. "But I'm with you."

Circling the ranch, Brevoort and Pete rode far out into the desert,
until the camp-fire was hidden by the ranch-buildings. Then they
angled in cautiously, edging past the 'dobe outbuildings and the
corrals toward the hacienda. "Don't see anybody around. Guess they
're all out in front drinkin' with the bunch," whispered Brevoort.
Just as Pete was about to make a suggestion, a figure rose almost
beneath the horse's head, and a guttural Mexican voice told him to
halt. Pete complied, telling the Mexican that they were from the Olla,
that they had a message for Ortez.

"No use arguin'," said Brevoort--and Pete caught Brevoort's meaning as
another man appeared.

"Ask him if Arguilla is here," said Brevoort. And Pete knew that these
were Arguilla's men, for none of the Ortez vaquero's carried
bolt-action rifles.

The sentry replied to Pete's question by poking him in the ribs with
the muzzle of his rifle, and telling his to get down muy pronto.

"Tell him our message is for Arguilla--not Ortez," suggested Brevoort.
"There's something wrong here. No use startin' anything," he added
hastily, as he dismounted. "Ortez is agent for Arguilla's outfit. If
you get a chance, watch what they do with our horses."

"We came to see El Comandante," said Pete as the sentries marched them
to the house. "We're his friends--and you'll be coyote-meat before
mornin' if you git too careless with that gun."

The sentry grunted and poked Pete in the back with his rifle, informing
him in that terse universal idiom that he could "tell it to El
Comandante."

From the