And a group of others, sunning themselves against the wall, looked up at the Americans with eyes as fearless as mountain eagles. "Yes, that's right," admitted Bud, returning their friendly greeting, "but we'll never have no trouble with them." "Well, these _Nacionales_ are not so bad," defended Phil, as they passed the State soldiers of Sonora on the street, "but they're just as friendly as the Yaquis." "Sure," jeered Bud, "when they're sober! But you get a bunch of 'em drunk and ask 'em what they think of the Gringos! No, you got to show me--I've seen too much of 'em." "You haven't seen as much of 'em as _I_ have, yet," retorted De Lancey, quickly. "I've been all over the republic, except right here in Sonora, and I swear these Sonorans here look good to me. There's no use holding a grouch against them, Bud--they haven't done us any dirt." "No, they never had no chance," grumbled Bud, gazing grimly to the south. "But wait till the hot weather comes and the _revoltosos_ come out of their holes; wait till them Chihuahua greasers thaw out up in the Sierras and come down to get some fresh mounts. Well, I'll tell 'em one thing," he ended, reaching down to pat his horse, "they'll never get old Copper Bottom here--not unless they steal him at night. It's all right to be cheerful about this, Phil, and you keep right on being glad, but I got a low-down hunch that we're going to get in bad." "Well, I've got just as good a hunch," came back De Lancey, "that we're going to make a killing." "Yes, and speaking of killings," said Bud, "you don't want to overlook _that_." He pointed at a group of dismantled adobe buildings standing out on the edge of the town and flanked by a segment of whitewashed wall all spattered and breached with bullet-holes. "There's where these prize Mexicans of yourn pulled off the biggest killing in Sonora. I was over here yesterday with that old prospector and he told me that that wall is the bull-ring. After the first big fight they gathered up three hundred and fifty men, more or less, and throwed 'em in a trench along by the wall--then they blowed it over on 'em with a few sticks of dynamite and let 'em pass for buried. No crosses or nothing. Excuse _me_, if they ever break loose like that--we might get planted with the rest!" "By Jove, old top!" exclaimed De Lancey, laughing teasingly, "you've certainly got the blues to-day. Here, take something out of this bottle and see if it won't help." He brought out a quart bottle from his saddle-bags and Bud drank, and shuddered at the bite of it. "All right," he said, as he passed it back, "and while we're talking, what's the matter with cutting it out on booze for this trip?" "What are we going to drink, then?" cried De Lancey in feigned alarm. "Water?" "Well, something like that," admitted Bud. "Come on--what do you say? We might get lit up and tell something."