“Better put your hands up and vote with your men. Then you won’t be tempted to play with your gun and commit suicide. That’s right, sir. I’ll relieve you of it if you don’t object.” Since the lieutenant had no objections to offer, the smiling gypsy possessed himself of the revolver. At the same instant two more men appeared at the end of the car. One of them was Juan Valdez and another one of the mule-skinners. Simultaneously with their entrance rang out a most disconcerting fusillade of small arms in the darkness without. Megales’ military band, as O’Halloran had facetiously dubbed them to the ranger, arrived at the impression that there were about a thousand insurgents encompassing the train. Chaves choked with rage, but the rest of the command yielded to the situation very tranquilly, with no desire to offer themselves as targets to this crackling explosion of Colts. _Muy bien!_ After all, Valdez was a better man to serve than the fox Megales. Swiftly Valdez and the wagon driver passed down the car and gathered the weapons from the seats of the troopers. Raising a window, they passed them out to their friends outside. Meanwhile, the sound of an axe could be heard battering at the door of the next car, and presently the crash of splintering wood announced that an entrance had been forced. “Breaking furniture, I reckon,” drawled Bucky, in English, for the moment forgetful of the part he was playing. “I hope they’ll be all right careful of them pianos and not mishandle them so they’ll get out of tune.” “So, señor, you are American,” said Chaves, in English, with a sinister smile. O’Connor shrugged, answering in Spanish: “I am Romany. Who shall say, whether American, or Spanish, or Bohemian? All nations call to me, but none claim me, señor.” The lieutenant continued to smile his meaning grin. “Yet you are American,” he persisted. “Oh, as you please. I am what you will, lieutenant.” “You speak the English like a native.” “You are complimentary.” Chaves lifted his eyebrows. “For believing that you are in costume, that you are wearing a disguise, Mr. American?” Bucky laughed outright, and offered a gay retort. “Believe me, lieutenant, I am no more disguised as a gypsy than you are as a soldier.” The Mexican officer flushed with anger at the suggestion of contempt in the careless voice. His generalship was discredited. He had been outwitted and made to yield without a blow. But to have it flung in his teeth with such a debonair insolence threw him into a fury. “If you and I ever meet on equal terms, señor, God pity you,” he ground out between his set jaws. Bucky bowed, answering the furious anger in the man’s face as much as his words. “I shall try to be careful not to offer myself a sheath for a knife some dark night,” he scoffed.