The old soldier's fist shot out like a pile-driver. The blow lifted the boy from his feet and flung him like a sack of meal against the wall. His body hung there a moment, then dropped to the ground. A faint groan was the only sound that showed he was not unconscious. The general strode from the room, Culvera at his heels. The brown mask of his face told no stories of how the younger man was enjoying himself. Before he slept, Ramon had one more pleasant task before him. He roused Harrison to tell him the news. He sat smiling on the foot of the bed, his eyes mocking the startled face of the prizefighter. "I come to bring you good news, senor," he jeered. "Your countryman has escaped." Harrison sat up in bed. "What's that? Escaped, did you say? Where to?" The Mexican swept one arm around airily. "How should I know? He's gone--broke out. He's taken a horse with him." "A horse!" repeated Harrison stupidly. "Just so--a horse. To ride upon, doubtless, since he was in somewhat of a hurry. Odd that a horse happened to be waiting saddled for him at two in the morning. Not so?" The American groped toward the point. "You mean--that he had friends, that some one helped him to get away?" The other man shrugged his shoulders. "Do I? Quien sabe? Anyhow, he's gone. Must be very disappointing to you, since you had promised yourself to see his translation to heaven at sunrise." Harrison expressed himself bitterly in language emphatic and profane. Meanwhile Culvera smiled pleasantly and sympathetically. "You run Pasquale a close second. He cursed the roof off when he found breath." "I'm not through with Yeager yet. Believe _me_, he'll have one heluvatime before I'm done," boasted the prizefighter savagely. "You're still in entire accord with the chief. Yet our friend the Gringo rides away in safety and laughs at you both. Ramon Culvera takes his hat off to Senor Yeager. He has played a winning game with courage and brains." "I beat his fool head off when he joined the Lunar Company--the very day he joined. When I meet up with him again, I'll repeat," Harrison bragged, hammering the pillow with his clenched fist. The Mexican looked politely incredulous. "Maybeso. This I say only. Yeager has played one game with Pasquale, one with you, and one with me. He comes out best each time. Of a sureness he is a strong man, wise, cool, resourceful. Is it not so?" The prizefighter sputtered with wounded vanity. "Him! The boob's nothing but a lucky guy. You'd ought to 'a' seen him after I fixed his map that first day. Down and out he was, take my word for it." "If Senor Harrison says so," assented Culvera with polite mockery. "But as you say, he laughs best who laughs last. And that reminds me. He left a note to be forwarded a friend. Pasquale was too crazy mad to see it, so I put it in my pocket." He handed to the other man the note Steve had written for Threewit. The prizefighter read it in the dim light laboriously.