Then a waiter brought the wine and when he had drunk some and lighted a cigarette Kit, listening to the talk of the men at the next table, got a hint that threw some light on Olsen’s offer.  Alvarez had used the vaults under the presidio for a munition store, and when he was dead the mayor-domo had blown up the building as the rebels forced their way in.  Now there was a new president in the field, it was obvious why Galdar wanted fresh supplies.  This, however, was not important, and Kit drained his glass and then tried to rouse himself.  He must look after the mule and if it was not fit for the journey get another animal.

He felt strangely reluctant to move; the fatigue he had for a time shaken off returned with puzzling suddenness and threatened to overpower him.  His head was very heavy, he could hardly hear the people talk, and every now and then his eyes shut.  He could not keep them open, but after a few minutes he straightened his bent shoulders with a resolute jerk and clenched his fist.  It was not fatigue that was mastering him; the wine was drugged.  He had not noted a suspicious taste, but he was thirsty and the omelette was strongly flavored with garlic and red pepper.

Holding himself stiffly upright, he tried to think.  Olsen had, no doubt, ordered the wine to be drugged, and his object was plain.  He meant to prevent Kit reaching the lagoon until he had removed the cargo on the beach and tried to persuade Mayne to land the rest.  Well, the plot would fail, and with an effort Kit got up and crossed the street.  He suspected that he was watched, but nobody tried to stop him and he mounted the mule.

The animal moved off at a better pace than he had hoped and he tried to brace himself.  His head ached and his brain was very dull, but somehow he stuck to the saddle, and although he could hardly guide the mule the animal avoided the people in its way.  After a time, the street became empty, the noise behind was fainter, and the houses were dark.  Nobody seemed to follow him and Kit began to hope he might be able to leave the town.  He did not know what he would do then, and hardly imagined he could keep up the effort much longer.  Perhaps, when he got away from the houses he could tie up the mule in a quiet place and rest.

When he rode down a rough track into open country he rocked in the saddle and would have fallen but for the high peak and big stirrups.  The hillside was blurred; distorted objects that he thought were rocks and cactus lurched about in the elusive moonlight, and the sweat ran down his face as he fought against the drug.  He knew it would conquer him, but he was going on as long as possible.

At length the mule stepped into a hole, Kit’s foot came out of the stirrup and he fell.  For a moment or two, the mule dragged him along; then he got his other foot loose and for a time knew nothing more.