There was a moment of silence. Then Alaire reasoned aloud: "I presume they chose our pumping-plant because it is directly opposite the Romero cemetery. I could have Benito and some trusty men waiting on this side. Or I could even send them over--" "No, no! Don't you understand? The whole thing is illegal." "Well, we could be there--you and I." Paloma agreed eagerly. "Yes! Maybe we could even help them if they got into trouble." "Come, then! We'll have supper at Las Palmas and slip down to the river and wait." Paloma was gone with a rush. In a moment she returned, ready for the trip, and with her she carried a Winchester rifle nearly as long as herself. "I hope you aren't afraid of firearms," she panted. "I've owned this gun for years." "I am rather a good shot," Alaire told her. Paloma closed her lips firmly. "Good! Maybe we'll come in handy, after all. Anyhow, I'll bet those Mexicans won't chase Dad and Dave very far." Jose Sanchez was true to his declared purpose. With a horse of his own between his knees, with money in his pocket and hate in his heart, he left Las Palmas, and, riding to the Lewis crossing, forded the Rio Grande. By early afternoon he was in Romero, and there, after some effort, he succeeded in finding General Longorio. Romero, at this time the southern outpost of Federal territory, standing guard against the Rebel forces in Tamaulipas, is a sun-baked little town sprawling about a naked plaza, and, except for the presence of Colonel Blanco's detachment of troops, it would have presented much the same appearance as any one of the lazy border villages. A scow ferry had at one time linked it on the American side with a group of 'dobe houses which were sanctified by the pious name of Sangre de Cristo, but of late years more advantageous crossings above and below had come into some use and Romero's ferry had been abandoned. Perhaps a mile above Sangre de Cristo, and directly opposite Romero's weed-grown cemetery, stood the pumping-plant of Las Palmas, its corrugated iron roof and high-flung chimney forming a conspicuous landmark. Luis Longorio had just awakened from his siesta when Jose gained admittance to his presence. The general lay at ease in the best bed of the best house in the village; he greeted the new-comer with a smile. "So, my brave Jose, you wish to become a soldier and fight for your country, eh?" "Yes, my general." Longorio yawned and stretched lazily. "Body of Christ! This is a hard life. Here am I in this goatherd's hovel, hot, dirty, and half starved, and all because of a fellow I never saw who got himself killed. You would think this Ricardo was an Englishman instead of a Gringo, for the fuss that is made. Who was he? Some great jefe? "A miserable fellow. I knew him well. Then he is indeed dead?" "Quite dead, I believe," Longorio said, carelessly; then turning his large, bright eyes upon the visitor, he continued, with more interest, "Now tell me about the beautiful senora, your mistress."