An American at the custom-house whirled, threw up his hands, and fell in an anguished heap. The halyards of the headquarters flag snapped, and the flag dropped loosely from its pulley to the ground. A bullet crashed through Swinnerton’s window and thudded in the wall behind him. He scarcely looked up. He was sitting before the photograph in his room, and talking to it, as was his custom. “No, I don’t blame you. No one could, and least of all _I_. It was a fine thing I offered you. People may laugh at a fool, but to live with one! Tired--I’m tired of it myself.” After a full minute’s silence, he added, “Dog-tired--_pitifully_ tired.” He rose wearily and walked toward the open window, whence he could see the long, supple slope of the tawny hillside, with the Mexican federal trenches cutting it diagonally on one flank, and the white smoke-puffs of the attackers on the other. The mayor of Caliente came storming into the outer office, roaring at the abashed headquarters orderly: “Where’s the commanding officer? Where is he, I say? What are you soldiers good for, anyway?” Swinnerton quietly opened the door, to the immense relief of the trooper. “The colonel’s gone to Huachuca,” he said, “and Captain Fredericks has taken the troop to Quebrantos under competent orders. Is there anything I can do for you?” “Do? Do? Why, those damned Greasers are firing _through this town_.” The mayor’s fingers spread as though dropping from them something not to be entertained for a moment. “I have no military function, you know,” drawled Swinnerton; “I’m just a surgeon. And if I had, the orders are plain. We must not cross that line, whatever happens.” “Drat your orders!” bellowed his Excellency, the mayor. A bullet came and smashed the door-lintel. It covered the mayor with a shower of dust and plaster. He ducked incontinently, and came up furious at Swinnerton’s vapid smile. “I know _you, Doctor_ Swinnerton. You’re the regimental joker, the official fool. Gad! man, don’t you get sick of yourself? Doesn’t the sight of suffering humanity”--he waved his hand in an excited gesture that included a hurrying group of frightened non-combatants who were rushing a wounded man to shelter--“stir a spark of anger in you? Ain’t you weary of grinning and being grinned at? Ain’t you tired of it, I say?” “Yes,” said Swinnerton, with unexpected decision, “I am tired. Get out of my way.” He walked deliberately through the door and out into the street, hatless and unarmed. The orderly at the door, a mere boy, followed him in his journey toward the plaza, to the custom-house door, and then to the line. Spiteful little dust-spots kicked up here and there in the open square, and a bullet whined close to the boy’s ear. Swinnerton turned and ordered him back. “I ain’t goin’,” the soldier refused stolidly. “I’m a-goin’ to stay by you--an’ I know what orders is.”