He entered the cantina and called for a drink. The lithe, dark riders of the south, grouped round a table in one corner of the room, glanced up, answered his general nod of salutation indifferently, and turned to talk among themselves. Catering to authority, the Mexican proprietor proffered a second drink to the Americano. The assistant collector toyed with his glass, and began a lazy conversation about the weather. The proprietor, his fat, oily face in his hands and his elbows on the bar, grunted monosyllables, occasionally nodding as the Americano forced his acknowledgment of a highly obvious platitude. And the assistant collector, listening for a chance word that would explain the presence of armed Mexico on American soil, knew that the proprietor was also listening for that same word that might explain their unprecedented visit. Presently the assistant collector of customs began a tirade against Nogales, its climate, institutions, and citizens collectively and singly. The proprietor awoke to argument. Their talk grew loud. The assistant collector thumped the bar with his fist, and ceased talking suddenly. A subdued buzz came from the corner where the rurales sat, and he caught the name "Waring." "And the whole town ain't worth the matches to burn it up," he continued. "If it wasn't for Pat, I'd quit right now." And he emptied his glass and strode from the room. Back in the office, he flung his hat on the table and rumpled his hair. "Those coyotes," he said casually, "are after some one called Waring. Pablo's whiskey is rotten." The collector's long legs unfolded, and he sat up, yawning. "Jim Waring isn't in town," he said as though to himself. "Pat, you give me a pain," said the assistant, grinning. "Got one myself," said the collector unsmilingly. "Cucumbers." "You're the sweetest liar for a thousand miles either side of the line. There isn't even the picture of a cucumber in this sun-blasted town." "Isn't, eh? Look here!" And the lank man pulled open a drawer in the desk. The collector fumbled among some papers and drew out a bulky seed catalogue, illustrated in glowing tints. "Oh, I'll buy," laughed the assistant. "I reckon if I asked for a picture of this man Waring that's wanted by those nickel-plated coyotes, you'd fish it up and never sweat a hair." "I could," said the collector, closing the drawer.