ife----"

"Why, I'm a city boy," interrupted Ned. "There isn't any horseback
riding done there. I'd rather go on wheels."

"Of course you would," laughed Zuroaga. "But there won't be any use for
wheels on some of the roads I am to follow. I've picked you out a pony
that you can manage, though, and you will soon learn. You will have to
be a horseman if you are to travel in Mexico."

"So father used to tell me," said Ned. "He can ride anything. Which of
these is my horse? They all look skittish----"

"Neither of these would do for you," replied the senor. "But listen to
me sharply. Twice you have called me general. Don't do it again until we
are beyond the mountains. I'm only a plain senor in all this region of
the country. I only hope that some men in Vera Cruz do not already know
that I am here. If they did, I am afraid I should not get out so easily.
This is your horse. He is a good one."

Hitched to a post near the wall was a fat, undersized animal, black as
jet, and with more mane and tail than was at all reasonable. He carried
a Mexican saddle with wooden stirrups and a tremendous curb-bit bridle.
In front of the saddle were pistol holsters, and behind it hung an
ammunition case, as if Ned were about to become a trooper. He went to
examine the holsters, and found that each of them contained a large
horse-pistol with a flintlock. He also found powder and bullets in the
case, and he wondered whether or not he would ever be able to shoot
anybody with one of those heavy, long-barrelled things without having
something to rest it on.

"I practised for an hour once in a pistol-gallery," he remarked, "but it
wasn't with anything like that."

"You didn't hit centre even then, eh?" laughed the senor. "Well, not
many men can do much with them, but they are better than nothing. They
are too heavy for a hand like yours. Here is your machete. Put it on."

Ned felt a queer tingle all over him, as he took the weapon and hitched
it at his belt. Then he drew it from the sheath and looked at it,
swinging it up and down to feel its weight. It was a straight, one-edged
blade, with a sharp point, and a brass basket hilt, and he remarked:

"Senor Zuroaga, I could hit with that, I guess."

His face had flushed fiery red, and it could be seen, from his handling
of the machete, that his muscles were unusually strong for his size and
age. The senor nodded his approbation, as he remarked:

"I think you will do. There is fight in yo