“If a mountain has swallowed up the Gringos, then is it the will of God, and who are we to interfere between God and His will?” they replied. “We are poor men, but we care not to work for any man, nor do we care to make war upon God. Also, it was the Gringos’ fault. This is not their country. They have no right here playing pranks on our mountains. Their troubles are between them and God. We have troubles enough of our own, and our wives are unruly.” Long after the siesta hour, on his third and most reluctant mule, Henry rode into sleepy San Antonio. In the main street, midway between the court and the jail, he pulled up at sight of the Jefe Politico and the little fat old judge, with, at their heels, a dozen gendarmes and a couple of wretched prisoners——runaway peons from the henequen plantations at Santos. While the judge and the Jefe listened to Henry’s tale and appeal for help, the Jefe gave one slow wink to the judge, who was his judge, his creature, body and soul of him. “Yes, certainly we will help you,” the Jefe said at the end, stretching his arms and yawning. “How soon can we get the men together and start?” Henry demanded eagerly. “As for that, we are very busy——are we not, honorable judge?” the Jefe replied with lazy insolence. “We are very busy,” the judge yawned into Henry’s face. “Too busy for a time,” the Jefe went on. “We regret that not to-morrow nor next day shall we be able to try and rescue your Gringos. Now, a little later——” “Say next Christmas,” the judge suggested. “Yes,” concurred the Jefe with a grateful bow. “About next Christmas come around and see us, and, if the pressure of our affairs has somewhat eased, then, maybe possibly, we shall find it convenient to go about beginning to attempt to raise the expedition you have requested. In the meantime, good day to you, Senor Morgan.” “You mean that?” Henry demanded with wrathful face. “The very face he must have worn when he slew Senor Alfaro Solano treacherously from the back,” the Jefe soliloquized ominously. But Henry ignored the later insult. “I’ll tell you what you are,” he flamed in righteous wrath. “Beware!” the judge cautioned him. “I snap my fingers at you,” Henry retorted. “You have no power over me. I am a full-pardoned man by the President of Panama himself. And this is what you are. You are half-breeds. You are mongrel pigs.” “Pray proceed, Senor,” said the Jefe, with the suave politeness of deathly rage. “You’ve neither the virtues of the Spaniard nor of the Carib, but the vices of both thrice compounded. Mongrel pigs, that’s what you are and all you are, the pair of you.” “Are you through Senor?—quite through?” the Jefe queried softly. At the same moment he gave a signal to the gendarmes, who sprang upon Henry from behind and disarmed him. “Even the President of the Republic of Panama cannot pardon in anticipation of a crime not yet committed——am I right, judge?” said the Jefe.