A score of reasons flocked to him why it was desirable to see young West. The boy was a friend, and it would be a joy just to grip him by the hand again after three years; Bruce had written to him to come and now that events had led him so near, he should grant the request; Bruce was having his own troubles, no doubt against the lawlessness of Escobar, Rios and the rest. And finally, he and Bruce might work things together so that both should derive benefit. Bruce might be in a position to befriend Gordon's little daughter. So much did Kendric dwell on the subject that night that it claimed his first thoughts when he woke in the early dawn. And therefore, when Zoraida's message was handed to him at the breakfast table, he stared at it with puzzled eyes asking himself if the amazing creature had read his thoughts through thick walls of adobe. The message was typewritten, even to the signature. It said: "No doubt Señor Kendric would like to see his old friend Señor West. If he will only set his signature below what follows he will be given a horse, permission to ride and instructions as to direction. Zoraida." And below were the words, with date and a dotted line for him to sign: "I pledge my word, as a gentleman, to Zoraida Castelmar, that I will return to her at Hacienda Montezuma not later than daybreak twenty-four hours from now. . . ." "A take or leave proposition, clean cut," he comprehended promptly. And as promptly he decided to take it. The maid who had brought him the paper was offering pen and ink. He accepted and wrote swiftly: "Jim Kendric." "Has Barlow breakfasted yet?" he asked, returning to his coffee. "An hour ago, Señor. He has gone out." "Alone?" "No, señor. With La Señorita Zoraida." "Hm," said Kendric. "And Rios? And Escobar?" "Señor Rios went to bed late; it is his custom, señor." The girl looked as though she could tell him more but, with a quick glance over her shoulder, contented herself with saying only: "Señor Escobar is with the men outside." "And the American girl? Miss Gordon?" "Asleep still, señor." "Has Escobar been near her?" "No, señor. She has been alone except for me and Rosita. _La pobrecita_," she added, almost in a whisper. "She is so frightened." "Be kind to her," said Kendric. He, too, looked over his shoulder. In his pocket were the few fifty-dollar bills left to him from his oil shares. "What is your name?" "Juanita," she told him. "All right, Juanita; take this." He slipped a bill along the tablecloth toward her. "Give Rosita half, you keep half. And be kind to Miss Gordon." "Oh, señor!" she cried, as in protest. But she took the bank note. Kendric felt better for the transaction; he finished his breakfast with rare appetite. "Now," he cried, jumping up, "for the horse. Is it ready?" Juanita, the folded paper in her hands, went with him to the door.