"All right, Pat. But mebby his credit ain't good on our side of the
line."

The lean man said nothing. He continued to gaze out of the window. The
white road ran south and south into the very haze of the beyond. His
assistant picked up a hat and strolled out. A few doors down the street
stood several excellent saddle animals tied to the hitching-rail in
front of the cantina. He didn't need to be told that they were the
picked horses of the rurales, and that for some strange reason his
superior had sent him to find out just why these same rurales were in
town.

He entered the cantina and called for a drink. The lithe, dark riders of
the south, grouped round a table in one corner of the room, glanced up,
answered his general nod of salutation indifferently, and turned to talk
among themselves. Catering to authority, the Mexican proprietor
proffered a second drink to the Americano. The assistant collector toyed
with his glass, and began a lazy conversation about the weather. The
proprietor, his fat, oily face in his hands and his elbows on the bar,
grunted monosyllables, occasionally nodding as the Americano forced his
acknowledgment of a highly obvious platitude.

And the assistant collector, listening for a chance word that would
explain the presence of armed Mexico on American soil, knew that the
proprietor was also listening for that same word that might explain
their unprecedented visit. Presently the assistant collector of customs
began a tirade against Nogales, its climate, institutions, and citizens
collectively and singly. The proprietor awoke to argument. Their talk
grew loud. The assistant collector thumped the bar with his fist, and
ceased talking suddenly. A subdued buzz came from the corner where the