The heart of Yeager sank. The thing he was being asked to do was plain murder. Even to save his own life he could not set his hand to such a contract. "I can't do that, general. But I'll pick a quarrel with him. I'll take a chance on even terms." "No--no!" Pasquale's voice was harsh and imperative. "The dog is plotting my murder. But first he wants to make sure he is strong enough to succeed me. So he waits. But I--Gabriel Pasquale--I wait for no man's knife. I strike first--and sure. You execute the traitor and save your own life which is forfeit. Caramba! Are you afraid?" "Not afraid, but--" "You walk out of that door a free man. You give the password for to-night. It is 'Gabriel.' You settle with the traitor and then ride away to safety. Maldito! Why hesitate?" "Because I'm a white man, general. We don't kill in the dark and run away. When I offer to fight him to a finish I go the limit--and then some. For I don't hate Culvera that bad. But I think a heap of Steve Yeager's life, so I'll stand pat on my proposition." "Am I a fool, senor?" asked the Mexican harshly. "How do I know you would keep faith, that you would not ride away--what you call laugh in your sleeve at me? No! You will strike under my own eye--with my revolver at your heart. Then I make sure." "I'll bet you'd make sure. You'd shoot me down and explain it all fine when your men came running. 'The Gringo dog escaped and killed my dear friend Ramon, but by good luck I shot him before he made his getaway.' Nothing doing." "Then you refuse?" Pasquale's narrowed eyes glittered in the moonshine. "You're right I do." The Mexican rose. "Die like a dog, then, you pigheaded Gringo." "Just a moment, general. I've got a letter here I wish you'd send north for me. It explains that I shot myself accidentally--lets you out fine in case Uncle Sam begins to ask inconvenient whys about my disappearance." "And why so much care to save me trouble?" inquired the insurgent leader suspiciously. "I have to put that in to get you to forward the letter, I reckon. What I want is that my friends should know I'm dead." As a soldier Pasquale could understand that desire. He hesitated. The sudden death of Americans had of late stirred a good deal of resentment across the line. Why not take the alibi Yeager so conveniently offered him? "Let's see your letter. But remember I promise nothing," said the Mexican roughly. Steve moved forward and gave it to him. His heart was pounding against his ribs as does that of a frightened rabbit in the hand. If Pasquale looked at the letter now he had a chance. If he put it in his pocket the chance vanished. The rebel chief glanced at the sheet of paper, opened it, and stepped back into the moonlight. For just an instant his eyes left Yeager and fell upon the paper. That moment belonged to Steve. Like a tiger he leaped for the hairy throat of the man.