He was in serious thought the while. How should he rid himself of this rival, this obstacle in the way of his well-laid plans, this interloper into his caravan? Must he call upon Texas Smith to assassinate the fellow? It was a disagreeably brutal solution of the difficulty, and moreover it might lead to loud suspicion and scandal, and finally it might be downright dangerous. There was such a thing as trial for murder and for conspiracy to effect murder. As to causing a United States officer to vanish quietly, as might perhaps be done with an ordinary American emigrant, that was too good a thing to be hoped. He must wait; he must have patience; he must trust to the future; perhaps some precipice would favor him; perhaps the wild Indians. He offered his cigaritos to Thurstane, and they smoked tranquilly in company. "What route do you take from here?" asked the officer. "Pass Washington, as you call it. Then the Moqui country. Then the San Juan." "There is no possible road down the San Juan and the Colorado." "If we find that to be so, we will sweep southward. I am, in a measure, exploring. Garcia wants a route to Middle California." "I also have a sort of exploring leave. I shall take the liberty to keep along with you. It may be best for both." The announcement sounded like a threat of surveillance, and Coronado's dark cheek turned darker with angry blood. This stolid and intrusive brute was absolutely demanding his own death. After saying, with a forced smile, "You will be invaluable to us, Lieutenant," the Mexican lounged away to where Texas Smith was examining his firearms, and whispered, "Well, will you do it?" "I ain't afeared of _him_," muttered the borderer. "It's his clothes. I don't like to shute at jackets with them buttons. I mought git into big trouble. The army is a big thing." "Two hundred dollars," whispered Coronado. "You said that befo'," croaked Texas. "Go it some better." "Four hundred." "Stranger," said Texas, after debating his chances, "it's a big thing. But I'll do it for that." Coronado walked away, hurried up his muleteers, exchanged a word with Mrs. Stanley, and finally returned to Thurstane. His thin, dry, dusky fingers trembled a little, but he looked his man steadily in the face, while he tendered him another cigarito. "Who is your hunter?" asked the officer. "I must say he is a devilish bad-looking fellow." "He is one of the best hunters Garcia ever had," replied the Mexican. "He is one of your own people. You ought to like him."