ejaculated. "He told me that one of the Tiger's favorite amusements
was to bring a prisoner here and prod him with bayonets over the brink.
I guess," he scowled, "we don't need to waste much sympathy on that
fellow, no matter what the captain does to him."

And the boys, with a lively recollection of the snake and the buckskin
thong, agreed with him.

But now the bugle blew and they hurried back to the clearing. The troop
stood at attention. Routine work connected with the raid had been
despatched, and the time had come for the military execution. Martial
law is brief and stern, and, under his instructions, the captain had the
power of life or death without appeal. His face was set and solemn, as
befitted one on whom weighed so heavy a responsibility, but there was no
relenting in his voice, as he bade a sergeant to bring out the prisoners.

The four came out, sullen and apathetic. He looked them over for a
moment, and then gave a sign. A trench was hastily dug and the prisoners
placed with their backs to it. Their eyes were bandaged. A firing squad
of a dozen men advanced to within ten feet and leveled their rifles. A
moment's pause, then a sharp word of command, and death leaped from the
guns. When the smoke cleared away, four motionless forms lay in the
trench, and justice had been done.

"Don't bury them yet," commanded the captain. "Bring out El Tigre."

There was a stir among the soldiers, as the dreaded chief, whose evil
fame was known all over Mexico, was brought before the captain. He was
harmless enough now. All his power had been stripped away, and all that
remained to him was his one redeeming quality of courage. He had heard
the firing, and, as he came from the tent, he passed close by the bodies
of his former followers. Doubtless the same fate awaited him, but he did
not waver, and his hideous face expressed only the bitterest venom and
malignity. If hate could kill, it would have blasted Dick, as for a
moment the bandit caught sight of him, in passing. Then he faced his
judge, who was also to be his executioner.

"Do you know me, El Tigre?" asked the Captain.

The outlaw glared at him.

"No," he snarled.

"Do you remember the boy you captured on that raid in the San Joaquin
valley, three months ago?"

"What of him?"

"He was my brother."

The guerilla shot a swift glance at him.

"Carramba," he muttered. Then after an instant's silence. "Yes, I
remember. He was great