um. There'd be something doin'. He came down here to drum
for Uncle Sam, but they wouldn't have him. They said he was too short
an' fat."

"Fatty Shaw!"

The drummer held his sides with his hands while he laughed, and then
dropped down on a convenient rock. The officer in charge of the file
of soldiers shook him by the shoulder, though he was laughing too.

"Get up," he said. "What kind of a minstrel show is this?"

"Frank Shaw!" roared the drummer, paying no attention to the order. "He
got sore because I told him I'd enlisted as a drummer and lit out. His
father'll be sending after him, though. He's a good scout. Where is he
now?"

"Lost," repeated Jimmie. "I don't know where he is. Just dropped into
a hole."

"Not into any small hole," observed the drummer. "Are those your
tents?" he added, with a longing look at the soft blankets.

"Sure," replied Jimmie. "Want to sleep? Go to it then. You're
welcome."

"You bet I will," said the drummer.

He started for one of the tents and then turned back.

"Did you see the wig-wagging awhile ago?" he asked.

"Sure I did," was the reply.

"It was brief," said the officer in charge of the file, "but, still,
long enough to convince me that we arrived here at the right time.
There is an army forming here, no one seems to know what for, and
renegade Americans are mixing in the game. The signals called for a
gathering some distance above us."

"That's the way I took it," observed Jimmie. "They are calling the men
together, I reckon, and there must be Americans in charge for they talk
United States."

"When you came up," began the officer, "did you observe the fellows
near the bottom? They seemed to me to be asking questions of the ones
up above."

"We saw no one except stragglers when we came up," was the reply.
"After the signals came, Ned Nestor and Frank Shaw went down there to
see who they were, and they are down there yet, I guess. At least,
they haven't returned."

The soldiers, who were now laying aside their weapons and preparing to
cook supper, late as the hour was, observed the lad eagerly at the
mention of Nestor's name. The lad noticed, too, as they gathered about
him with questioning looks, that they were not at all like Mexicans in
appearance, now that they had thrown off their outer clothing. Jimmie
glanced from the officer to his men.

"You don't look like Greasers to me," he said.

The officer laughed but made no reply.

"Yo