to me one Ramon Ortego, of Sonora, who aided this man to escape, and who
is reported to have killed one of my men and stolen one of my horses."

"He ought to make a darned good rural, if that's so," said the
collector. "But he is under arrest for smuggling. He rode a horse
across the line without declaring valuation."

"Juan," said the captain, "seize the horse of the Americano."

"Juan," echoed Waring softly, "I have heard that Pedro Salazar seized
the horse of an Americano--in Sonora."

The rural stopped short and turned as though awaiting further
instructions from his chief. The collector of customs rose and sauntered
to the doorway. Leaning against the lintel, he lighted a cigar and
smoked, gazing at Waring's horse with an appreciative eye. The captain
of rurales, seated opposite Waring, rolled a cigarette carefully; too
carefully, thought Waring, for a Mexican who had been daring enough to
ride across the line with armed men. Outside in the fading sunlight, the
horses of the rurales stamped and fretted. The cantina was strangely
silent. In the doorway stood the collector, smoking and toying with his
watch-charm.

Presently the assistant collector appeared, glanced in, and grinned.
"The kid is asleep--in the office," he whispered to the collector.

Waring knew that the flicker of an eyelid, an intonation, a gesture,
might precipitate trouble. He also knew that diplomacy was out of the
question. He glanced round the room, pushed back his chair, and, rising,
stepped to the bar. With his back against it, he faced the captain.