“American consul ’as no business with crime against state of Mehico. You will ’ave lawyer when you are tried before court at Hermosillo. Zeese court ees not court of condemnation. Court of condemnation ees at Hermosillo. W’en you arrive there, w’ere you make for a start to-night, Señor ’Ickman, you ask for American consul if you desire.” “But you cannot send me to this Hermosillo place without trial.” Grant took a step toward the bench in his vehemence. He was roughly jerked back by his guards. The interrogating judge beamed on him. “In Mehico, Señor ’Ickman, it ees folly to say ‘you cannot.’ Much ees possible in Mehico. To-night prisoners make start for Hermosillo. You go weeth them.” He nodded to Grant’s guards and they closed in on him. He heard a farewell, “Adios, Señor ’Ickman,” from the bench as he was rudely hustled out of the courtroom. An hour later he stood with seven other shadows in the _carcel_ courtyard. About them were the rurales with their rifles; four were mounted on horseback and a pack mule, lightly laden, slept on three legs behind the horsemen. Men came with lanterns and heavy loops of something which chinked metallically when it was dropped. They fixed a broad steel shackle on the left wrist of each prisoner and linked them all to a bull chain. Then the door of a courtyard swung inward, the mounted rurales closed in and the eight chained men went clinking out to the dark street. A few midnight dawdlers paused to watch the shadowy procession stumbling over the cobbles. No word was spoken. The clink of the horses’ hoofs, the patter-patter of the short-legged pack mule and the metallic whisperings of the chain fitted into a measured cadence. Despite the presence of the pack mule, Grant first had thought the journey would be a short one, ending at the railroad station. But after fifteen minutes’ marching no railroad line was in sight and the houses began to be scattered. Suddenly houses ceased; nothing but the hump-shouldered shapes of mountains about; clear burning stars and ahead a dim ribbon of road leading out into the desert. To Hermosillo, a town unheard of and at a distance unknown--across the desert to Hermosillo afoot and chained in line with seven men. In the slim rifle barrels so carelessly slung under shadows of sombreros was the sullen emblem of that unwritten law of Mexico which stills so many accusing mouths: _ley de fuga_--law of flight. Out into the desert of Altar marched the American, whose name appeared only upon a secret cachet in the hands of the puppet judges--a man gone, as a German once put it, “without trace.” CHAPTER VII THE CHAIN GANG “But, Doc, I tell you you’re crazy! How could a tenderfoot like Hickman just in town from the East breeze across the Line and get into a jam the first night he’s in town--drop out of sight completely?”