“Sure. But recollect, Miss Hammond, that Gene’ll give it to me good if he ever knows I let you look and told you what’s what. Well, decent-like Gene is seen’ them poor devils get a square meal. They’re only a lot of calf-thieves in this country. Across the border they’re bandits, some of them, the others just riffraff outlaws. That rebel bluff doesn’t go down with us. I’d have to see first before I’d believe them Greasers would fight. They’re a lot of hard-ridin’ thieves, and they’d steal a fellow’s blanket or tobacco. Gene thinks they’re after you ladies—to carry you off. But Gene—Oh, Gene’s some highfalutin in his ideas lately. Most of us boys think the guerrillas are out to rob—that’s all.” Whatever might have been the secret motive of Don Carlos and his men, they did not allow it to interfere with a hearty appreciation of a generous amount of food. Plainly, each individual ate all that he was able to eat at the time. They jabbered like a flock of parrots; some were even merry, in a kind of wild way. Then, as each and every one began to roll and smoke the inevitable cigarette of the Mexican, there was a subtle change in manner. They smoked and looked about the camp, off into the woods, up at the crags, and back at the leisurely cowboys. They had the air of men waiting for something. “Senor,” began Don Carlos, addressing Stewart. As he spoke he swept his sombrero to indicate the camp circle. Madeline could not distinguish his words, but his gesture plainly indicated a question in regard to the rest of the camping party. Stewart’s reply and the wave of his hand down the trail meant that his party had gone home. Stewart turned to some task, and the guerrilla leader quietly smoked. He looked cunning and thoughtful. His men gradually began to manifest a restlessness, noticeable in the absence of former languor and slow puffing of cigarette smoke. Presently a big-boned man with a bullet head and a blistered red face of evil coarseness got up and threw away his cigarette. He was an American. “Hey, cull,” he called in loud voice, “ain’t ye goin’ to cough up a drink?” “My boys don’t carry liquor on the trail,” replied Stewart. He turned now to face the guerrillas. “Haw, haw! I heerd over in Rodeo thet ye was gittin’ to be shore some fer temperance,” said this fellow. “I hate to drink water, but I guess I’ve gotter do it.” He went to the spring, sprawled down to drink, and all of a sudden he thrust his arm down in the water to bring forth a basket. The cowboys in the hurry of packing had neglected to remove this basket; and it contained bottles of wine and liquors for Madeline’s guests. They had been submerged in the spring to keep them cold. The guerrilla fumbled with the lid, opened it, and then got up, uttering a loud roar of delight. Stewart made an almost imperceptible motion, as if to leap forward; but he checked the impulse, and after a quick glance at Nels he said to the guerrilla: