h betrayed a suppressed
excitement in spite of the fat cigar. He reached out, caught Cliff's
arm, and turned back toward the house, forgetting all about his stroll
as soon as he began to speak. He forgot something else, for Johnny
distinctly heard a sentence or two not meant for his ears.

"I've put it through all right. I got them to sign with the
understanding that they don't turn a hand till you bring the money.
You can take--"

That was all, for even on that still night the florid gentleman's voice
receded quickly to an unintelligible mumbling. They went inside, and
the door closed. Johnny and the Thunder Bird were once more shut out
from their conference.

Johnny spied a Mexican who was leaning against the wall of a smaller
building, smoking and staring pensively across the moonlighted plain
toward that portion of the United States where the Potreros hunched
themselves up against the stars.

"Bring me some gas, you!" he called peremptorily.

The Mexican pulled his gaze away from the vista that had held him
hypnotized and straightened his lank form reluctantly. From a bench
near by he picked up a square kerosene can of the type made
internationally popular by a certain oil trust, inspected it to see if
the baling-wire handle would hold the weight of four gallons of
gasoline, and sauntered to a shed under which a red-leaded iron drum
lay on a low scaffold of poles. A brass faucet was screwed into the
hole for a faucet. He turned it listlessly, watched the gasoline run
in a sparkling stream the size of his finger, went off into a
moon-dream until the oil can was threatening to run over, and then shut
off the stream at its source. He picked up the can with the air of one
whose mind is far distant, came like a sleepwalker to where Johnny
waited, set the can down, and turned apathetically to retrace his steps
to where he could lean again.

"That ain't all. Bring me a can of water as fast as you brought the
gas. We may want to go back to-night."

"Si," sighed the Mexican and continued to drift away.

"Don't be in a hurry. Come and lift the can up to me."

The Mexican returned as slowly as he had departed, and picked up the
can. Johnny dropped a half dollar into it, whereat the Mexican's eyes
opened a trifle wider.

"What's the name of that red-faced friend of Cliff's?" Johnny asked,
taking the can and beginning to pour gas into the Thunder Bird's tank.

"Quien sabe?" murmured the listless one.