the pleasant dull chink of the
dobie dollars in the rawhide pack-sacks.

In Galeyville the rustlers talked the matter over. It was a simple
problem: go and get the money. They went one day and made their camp
near Guadalupe canyon. They sent scouts on through the gorge to watch
the country from the mesa above the spot where John Slaughter's ranch
buildings now stand. One hot noontide the scouts came riding in.

"There's a big outfit coming. Must be a dozen mules and nigh on to
thirty men." The outlaws were in the saddle before those who brought
the tidings had time to breathe their horses.

In those days you were supposed to give a man what the old-timers
called an even break before you killed him. The supposition was lived
up to by the chivalrous and ignored by many who gained large
reputations. But when it came to Mexicans there was not even that
ideal to attain; they were not rated as full-fledged human beings; to
slay one meant no addition to the notches on one's gun, nor did one
feel obliged to observe the rules of fair play. You simply killed your
greaser in the most expeditious manner possible and then forgot about
it. The rustlers went about the business according to this custom.
Save for Curly Bill the members of the party left their horses in
charge of a man around a turn of the gorge. They hid themselves behind
the rocks on the steep mountain-side and waited while their burly
leader rode slowly to meet the smugglers.

The train was traveling after the Mexican fashion, which is very much
like the Spanish California manner of driving a herd. The chief of the
outfit rode in the lead some distance before the first pack-mule. The
laden animals followed in single file. Flanking them on each side were
the armed guards, with one or two closing in on the rear. Thus they
came, winding their way among the stark rocks and the clumps of
Spanish bayonet, and when the leader caught sight of Curly Bill from
under his huge, silver decked sombrero, he reined in his horse; his
grip tightened on the rifle which he carried across his saddle. The
outriders pulled up; there was a low rattle of shifting weapons and
the bell of the first mule stopped tinkling as the train came to a
stand.

But the strange rider was alone. The leader raised his arm in signal
and the straggling procession resumed its advance. The solitary
American rode on until he was alongside their head man.

"Buenos dias, Senor," he said and checked his pony.