There, at the side of the plaza, I came upon a little group of five Americans huddled upon a bench. They were ragged beyond belief, all except a slender youth in leggings and a Federal officer’s uniform, who wore a crownless Mexican hat. Feet protruded from their shoes, none had more than the remnants of socks, all were unshaven. One mere boy wore his arm in a sling made out of a torn blanket. They made room for me gladly, stood up, crowded around, cried how good it was to see another American among all these damned greasers. "What are you fellows doing here?" I asked. "We’re soldiers of fortune!" said the boy with the wounded arm. "Aw——!" interrupted another. "Soldiers of——!" "Ye see it’s this way," began the soldierly looking youth. "We’ve been fighting right along in the Brigada Zaragosa—was at the battle of Ojinaga and everything. And now comes an order from Villa to discharge all the Americans in the ranks and ship ’em back to the border. Ain’t that a hell of a note?" "Last night they gave us our honorable discharges and threw us out of the cuartel," said a one-legged man with red hair. "And we ain’t had any place to sleep and nothing to eat——" broke in a little gray-eyed boy whom they called the Major. "Don’t try and panhandle the guy!" rebuked the soldier indignantly. "Ain’t we each going to get fifty Mex in the morning?" We adjourned for a short time to a nearby restaurant, and when we returned I asked them what they were going to do. "The old U.S. for mine," breathed a good-looking black Irishman who hadn’t spoken before. "I’m going back to San Fran and drive a truck again. I’m sick of greasers, bad food and bad fighting." "I got two honorable discharges from the United States army," announced the soldierly youth proudly. "Served through the Spanish War, I did. I’m the only soldier in this bunch." The others sneered and cursed sullenly. "Guess I’ll reënlist when I get over the border." "Not for mine," said the one-legged man. "I’m wanted for two murder charges—I didn’t do it, swear to God I didn’t—it was a frame-up. But a poor guy hasn’t got a chance in the United States. When they ain’t framing up some fake charge against me, they jail me for a ’vag.’ I’m all right though," he went on earnestly. "I’m a hard-working man, only I can’t get no job." The Major raised his hard little face and cruel eyes. "I got out of a reform school in Wisconsin," he said, "and I guess there’s some cops waiting for me in El Paso. I always wanted to kill somebody with a gun, and I done it at Ojinaga, and I ain’t got a bellyful yet. They told us we could stay if we signed Mex citizenship papers; I guess I’ll sign to-morrow morning." "The hell you will," cried the others. "That’s a rotten thing to do. Suppose we get Intervention and you have to shoot against your own people. You won’t catch me signing myself away to be a greaser."