“Anyway, here I am, with me neck so near to the rope it fairly aches sometimes. If you have any inclinations toward suicide, I’ll be glad to introduce ye to me revolutionary friends.” “Thank you, no. The fact is that we have a little private war of our own on hand, Mike. I was thinking maybe you’d like to enlist, old filibuster.” “Is the pay good?” “Nothing a day and find yourself,” answered Bucky promptly. “No reasonable man could ask fairer than that,” agreed O’Halloran, his grin expanding. “Well, then, what’s the row? Would ye like to be dictator of Chihuahua or Emperor of Mexico?” “There’s an American in the government prison here under a life sentence. He is not guilty, and he has already served fifteen years.” “He is like to serve fifteen more, if he lives that long.” “Wrong guess. I mean to get him out.” “And I’m meaning to go to Paradise some day, but will I?” “You’re going to help me get him out, Mike.” “Who told ye that, me optimistic young friend?” “I didn’t need to be told.” “Well, I’ll not lift a finger, Bucky—not a finger.” “I knew you wouldn’t stand to see a man like Henderson rot in a dungeon. No Irishman would.” “You needn’t blarney me. I’m too old a bird to be caught with chaff. It’s a dirty shame, of course, about this man Henderson, but I’m not running the criminal jurisprudence of Mexico meself.” “And I said to Webb Mackenzie: ‘Mickey O’Halloran is the man to see; he’ll know the best way to do it as nobody else would.’ I knew I could depend on you.” “You’ve certainly kissed the blarney stone, Mr. O’Connor,” returned the revolutionist dryly. “Well, then, what do you want me to do?” “Nothing much. Get Henderson out and help us to get safely from the country whose reputation you black-eye so cheerfully.” “Mercy of Hiven! Bring me the moon and a handful of stars, says he, as cool as you please.” The ranger told the story of Henderson and Mackenzie’s lost child in such a way that it lost nothing in the telling. O’Halloran was moved. “’Tis a damned shame about this man Henderson,” he blurted out. Bucky leaned back comfortably and waved airily his brown hand. “It’s up to you,” his gay, impudent eyes seemed to say. “I don’t say I won’t be able to help you,” conceded O’Halloran. “It happens, me bye, that you’ve dropped in on me just before the band begins to play.” He lowered his voice almost to a whisper. “There’s a shipment of pianos being brought down the line this week. The night after they arrive I’m looking for music.” “I see. The piano boxes are filled with rifles and ammunition.” “You have a mind like a tack, Bucky. Rifles is the alias of them pianos. They’ll make merry music once we get them through.” “That’s all very well, but have you reckoned with the government at Mexico? Chihuahua isn’t the whole country, Mickey. Suppose President Diaz takes a hand in the game and sends troops in on you?”