The driver, a burly fellow, with his belt filled with pistols, pulled up the horses with a volley of oaths. “Thunder an’ blazes!” he yelled. “Who in perdition are ye? What kind of a rig d’yer call that?” The Jehu sat on his box staring at the Steam Man like one out of his senses. Upon the box was a miner in red shirt and top boots, and upon the top of the coach were half a dozen more. Within the coach were a number of Mexicans, a flashily dressed sport and a type of the genus gambler. “A stage line!” exclaimed Frank, in amazement. “And in this out of the way place. Who’d have dreamed it?” “Bejabers, we must be comin’ to some koind of a settlemint,” cried Barney. The pass was barely wide enough at this point to let the coach and the Steam Man pass. But the coach did not offer to move, and Frank saw the passengers pulling their revolvers. He comprehended the situation at a glance, and cried: “Hold on, friends! there’s no need of that. We are not road agents!” “Oh, ye ain’t, eh?” thundered the burly Jehu. “Well, we’re powerful glad to hear that. But whar in thunder did ye git that bullgine, anyhow?” The passengers now all crowded out of the coach. They were consumed with curiosity to inspect this new wonder. “Instead of a steam ingine!” cried one of the sports, “ye see, gentlemen, we now have a Steam Man.” “A Steam Man!” gasped several. “Well, if that don’t beat me.” With much wonderment they proceeded to examine the Steam Man. Frank politely showed them the workings of the invention, and then, with some surprise, said: “But how do we happen to find an American stage and American miners this side of the line?” One of the sports gave a knowing wink and said: “That’s all right--there’s a nice little claim over here that we’ve been up to see. We are from Saint’s Repose, jest over the line into the States. In course this is Mexican land, but if ther greasers don’t get onto us, we’ll git some of that Mexican gold over into the United States afore many days, you bet!” Frank was astonished. “Are we then very near the line?” he asked. “Not more than fifty miles.” This was most astounding information to Frank Reade, Jr. He had already traveled a distance of full five hundred miles from Laredo. “Pshaw!” he exclaimed. “If I had known that I would have traveled all the way on United States territory.” “Cert, stranger,” was the reply, when Frank informed them of his course, “but then, for all that, ye came direct enough. The line bends in here, ye know, and ye’ve come along a north-westerly course.” “So it seems!” agreed Frank, “but are not these the Los Pueblos Mountains?” “Cert.” “Well, how is it that you do not run across Miguel Costello and his gang?” “Well, we have heerd tell of that chap a good deal. He hain’t ever attacked us, though we’ve been lookin’ for a scrimmage with him off an’ on.” “Indeed!” exclaimed Frank, in amazement. “I think it very singular then, for I understand that he is the terror of this region.”