inst it, but Murguia knew well enough that the sinister crescent was
fixed on himself. "Three-sixty-eight, at half a peso each, that makes
one hundred and eighty-four pesos which Your Mercy owes us, Don
Anastasio. Add on collection charges, ten per cent.--well, with your
permission, we'll call it two hundred flat."

Don Anastasio manifested an itch for argument.

"Oh leave all that," he of the crimson serape broke in. "Why go over it
again? We are loyal imperialists, and only our lasting friendship for
you holds us from informing His Majesty's Contras how you contribute to
that arch rebel, Rodrigo Galan."

"But," weakly protested Murguia, "but who believes that Don Rodrigo
turns any of it over to the Liberal--to the rebel cause?"

"A swollen-lunged patriot like your Don Rodrigo--of course he does,
every cent," and the cross-eye took on a jocular gleam.

"Now, Senor Murguia," he of the same eye continued, "the favor of your
attention. See that 'T' on my sombrero? That's 'Tiburcio.' See that 'M'?
That's 'Maximiliano.' And that sword? That's 'Woe to the Conquered,' at
least the sombrero maker said so. Well, Don Anastasio----" and he ended
with a gesture that the poor trader saw even in his dreams, the unctuous
rubbing of fingers on the thumb.

Sadly Don Anastasio unstrapped a belt under his black vest, and counted
out in French gold the equivalent of two hundred Mexican dollars.

Don Tiburcio took the money, and observed, as in the nature of pleasant
gossip, that Don Anastasio had quite an unusual outfit this time.

Murguia took alarm immediately. "Not so large as usual, Don Tiburcio.
The crops up there----"

"Crops? No, I don't mean your cotton. I mean fine linen and muslin, and
silks, and laces--petticoats and stockings, Don Anastasio."

"They--they are Don Rodrigo's affairs, not mine."

"Enough yours for you to be anxious to deliver the goods safely, I
think. But the rate on that class of stuff is rather high. Now what do
you suppose, my esteemed compadre, Don Rodrigo would say if we had to
confiscate the consignment?"

But Don Anastasio did not need to suppose. "How much?" he whimpered.

"Well, with the American----"

"Fires of hell consume the American! Collect your tolls from him
yourself. He's no affair of anybody's."

The vaqueros laughed. "We'll throw in the American for nothing," said
Don Tiburcio generously. "Besides, to look at him, he may not be
very--tollable. But delicate dress goods now, th