In the interior it was scarcely more inviting than outside, but the hospitable ranchero offered Frank a seat. The young inventor accepted it. It was a small chair near a window, through which Frank could easily see what was going on in the yard. “Pardon, senor!” said the ranchero, affably, “but may we not exchange names? I am Don Juan de Casnova.” “And I am Frank Reade, Jr.” Frank was sure that the other gave a queer start and changed color a bit. But if so he was quickly recovered. For smilingly he said: “Senor Reade, I shall drink to your health.” Then from a closet near the ranchero produced a quaint old flagon and some silver drinking mugs. Into this he poured some of the richest wine that Frank had ever seen. “This is better than pulque, senor,” declared Don Casnova with a smile. “Drink to success.” “Amen!” said Frank. He took a draught of the wine. It was rich and gratifying to his taste. He drained the glass. “Another, senor,” insisted Casnova. Frank could not refuse. The wine warmed him and made him feel invigorating. De Casnova seated himself opposite Frank and opened a conversation. “Pardon my curiosity, senor,” he said, politely, “but it is a natural question to ask the mission of one traveling across the country as you are. Is it a secret?” Frank hesitated a moment. His better sense told him the danger of making a confidant in this wild region. Acting on impulse, he replied: “I am out here in quest of a gold claim, near Los Pueblos.” “Caramba!” exclaimed the ranchero, with a start. “Is it a rich one?” “It is so reported.” “I have heard of gold about Los Pueblos, but I have heretofore regarded it as a myth.” “It has been established a certain fact, I believe.” “Indeed! I should like to see that claim.” Frank was silent a moment. There was a question uppermost in his mind which he desired strongly to ask the other. But he was in doubt as to the safety of doing it. Finally, after the conversation had turned upon different topics, he ventured to say: “Pardon me, senor, but is there in these parts a man named Miguel Costello?” The ranchero gave a start. An odd, startled light came into his eyes. But he evinced trepidation only a moment. “Si, senor,” he replied; “I have heard of him.” “What sort of a man is he?” It was a direct question, but Frank believed it the best under the circumstances. The ranchero idly pulled at his cheroot, and gazing at Frank languidly through half-shut eyes, replied: “Well, senor, I think it not good taste to speak disparagingly of a man’s character. Yet Miguel is so well known that it cannot hurt to tell the truth that he is a bad man.” “Indeed!” “In fact, he is an outlaw, and if he had his just deserts would be hung for many a dark crime.” “Ah!” said Frank, quietly; “perhaps then you can tell me of the unfortunate American, Harvey Montaine, who it is said has fallen into his clutches?” The ranchero smiled in a peculiar way as he replied slowly: