Thorne wiped the perspiration from his pale face and bent a dark gaze out of the window before he resumed his talk.

“Consider what the position of Mercedes really is.  I can’t get any help from our side of the line.  If so, I don’t know where.  The population on that side is mostly Mexican, absolutely in sympathy with whatever actuates those on this side.  The whole caboodle of Greasers on both sides belong to the class in sympathy with the rebels, the class that secretly respects men like Rojas, and hates an aristocrat like Mercedes.  They would conspire to throw her into his power.  Rojas can turn all the hidden underground influences to his ends.  Unless I thwart him he’ll get Mercedes as easily as he can light a cigarette.  But I’ll kill him or some of his gang or her before I let him get her. . . .  This is the situation, old friend.  I’ve little time to spare.  I face arrest for desertion.  Rojas is in town.  I think I was followed to this hotel.  The priest has betrayed me or has been stopped.  Mercedes is here alone, waiting, absolutely dependent upon me to save her from—­from....She’s the sweetest, loveliest girl!...In a few moments—­sooner or later there’ll be hell here!  Dick, are you with me?”

Dick Gale drew a long, deep breath.  A coldness, a lethargy, an indifference that had weighed upon him for months had passed out of his being.  On the instant he could not speak, but his hand closed powerfully upon his friend’s.  Thorne’s face changed wonderfully, the distress, the fear, the appeal all vanishing in a smile of passionate gratefulness.

Then Dick’s gaze, attracted by some slight sound, shot over his friend’s shoulder to see a face at the window—­a handsome, bold, sneering face, with glittering dark eyes that flashed in sinister intentness.

Dick stiffened in his seat.  Thorne, with sudden clenching of hands, wheeled toward the window.

“Rojas!” he whispered.

II

MERCEDES CASTANEDA

The dark face vanished.  Dick Gale heard footsteps and the tinkle of spurs.  He strode to the window, and was in time to see a Mexican swagger into the front door of the saloon.  Dick had only a glimpse; but in that he saw a huge black sombrero with a gaudy band, the back of a short, tight-fitting jacket, a heavy pearl-handled gun swinging with a fringe of sash, and close-fitting trousers spreading wide at the bottom.  There were men passing in the street, also several Mexicans lounging against the hitching-rail at the curb.

“Did you see him?  Where did he go?” whispered Thorne, as he joined Gale.  “Those Greasers out there with the cartridge belts crossed over their breasts—­they are rebels.”

“I think he went into the saloon,” replied Dick.  “He had a gun, but for all I can see the Greasers out there are unarmed.”

“Never believe it!  There!  Look, Dick!  That fellow’s a guard, though he seems so unconcerned.  See, he has a short carbine, almost concealed....There’s another Greaser farther down the path.  I’m afraid Rojas has the house spotted.”