"Why, this morning an outpost of eighty _rurales_ was sent scouting north from Bermejillo. We heard about it over the wire and informed Benavides on the left. He sent a troop to take them in the rear, and drove them north in a running fight for fifteen miles until they smashed up against our main body and not one got out alive. They’re scattered along the whole way just where they fell." In a moment we were speeding south on the hand-car. At our right hand and our left rode two silent, shadowy figures on horseback—cavalry guards, with rifles ready under their arms. Soon the flares and fires of the train were left behind, and we were enveloped and smothered in the vast silence of the desert. "Yes," said Calzado, "the _rurales_ are brave. They are _muy hombres_. _Rurales_ are the best fighters Diaz and Huerta ever had. They never desert to the Revolution. They always remain loyal to the established government. Because they are police." It was bitter cold. None of us talked much. "We go ahead of the train at night," said the soldier at my left, "so that if there are any dynamite bombs underneath——" "We could discover them and dig them out and put water in them, _carramba_!" said another sarcastically. The rest laughed. I began to think of that, and it made me shiver. The dead silence of the desert seemed an expectant hush. One couldn’t see ten feet from the track. "_Oiga_!" shouted one of the horsemen. "It was just here that one lay." The brakes ground and we tumbled off and down the steep embankment, our lanterns jerking ahead. Something lay huddled around the foot of a telegraph pole—something infinitely small and shabby, like a pile of old clothes. The _rurale_ was upon his back, twisted sideways from his hips. He had been stripped of everything of value by the thrifty rebels—shoes, hat, underclothing. They had left him his ragged jacket with the tarnished silver braid, because there were seven bullet holes in it; and his trousers, soaked with blood. He had evidently been much bigger when alive—the dead shrink so. A wild red beard made the pallor of his face grotesque, until you noticed that under it and the dirt, and the long lines of sweat of his terrible fight and hard riding, his mouth was gently and serenely open as if he slept. His brains had been blown out. "_Corrai!_" said one guard. "There was a shot for the dirty goat! Right through the head!" The others laughed. "Why, you don’t think they shot him there in the fight, do you, _pendeco_?" cried his companion. "No, they _always_ go around and make sure afterward——" "Hurry up! I’ve found the other," shouted a voice off in the darkness.