I wandered up the mile-long, incredibly dilapidated street that leads to the town. A streetcar came past, drawn by one galloping mule and bulging with slightly intoxicated soldiers. Open surreys full of officers with girls on their laps rolled along. Under the dusty, bare alamo trees each window held its señorita, with a blanket-wrapped _caballero_ in attendance. There were no lights. The night was dry and cold and full of a subtle exotic excitement; guitars twanged, snatches of song and laughter and low voices, and shouts from distant streets, filled the darkness. Occasionally little companies of soldiers on foot came along, or a troop of horsemen in high sombreros and serapes jingled silently out of the blackness and faded away again, bound probably for the relief of guard. In one quiet stretch of street near the bull-ring, where there are no houses, I noticed an automobile speeding from the town. At the same time a galloping horse came from the other direction, and just in front of me the headlights of the machine illumined the horse and his rider, a young officer in a Stetson hat. The automobile jarred to a grinding stop and a voice from it cried, "_Haltoie!_" "Who speaks?" asked the horseman, pulling his mount to its haunches. "I, Gusman!" and the other leaped to the ground and came into the light, a coarse, fat Mexican, with a sword at his belt. "Como le va, mi Capitan?" The officer flung himself from his horse. They embraced, patting each other on the back with both hands. "Very well. And you? Where are you going?" "To see Maria." The captain laughed. "Don’t do it," he said; "I’m going to see Maria myself, and if I see you there I shall certainly kill you." "But I am going just the same. I am as quick with my pistol as you, señor." "But you see," returned the other mildly, "we both cannot go!" "Perfectly!" "_Oiga!_" said the captain to his chauffeur. "Turn your car so as to throw the light evenly along the sidewalk.... And now we will walk thirty paces apart and stand with our backs turned until you count three. Then the man who first puts a bullet through the other man’s hat wins...." Both men drew immense revolvers and stood a moment in the light, spinning the chambers. "_Listo_! Ready!" cried the horseman. "Hurry it," said the captain. "It is a bad thing to balk love." Back to back, they had already begun to pace the distance. "One!" shouted the chauffeur. "Two!" But quick as a flash the fat man wheeled in the trembling, uncertain light, threw down his lifted arm, and a mighty roar went soaring slowly into the heavy night. The Stetson of the other man, whose back was still turned, took an odd little leap ten feet beyond him. He spun around, but the captain was already climbing into his machine.