upin, the Tiger of the Tropics, was a curious
and picturesque man. His medals were more than he could wear, and each
was for splendid daring. But on a time they had been stripped from him.
It happened in China. He had made a gallant assault on the Imperial
Palace, but he had also satiated his barbarian soul in carnage and
loaded his shoulders with buccaneering loot. And though he wondered at
his own moderation, a court martial followed. However, Louis Napoleon
gave him back his medals, and sent him to Mexico to stamp out savagery
by counter savagery.

"There were two accomplices in this business," the Tiger was saying,
"one a trader, Murguia----"

"Killed him my very first shot," lied Tiburcio. He would save his golden
goose of the golden eggs.

"And the other, an American?"

"Got away with the others, senor." Again Tiburcio's reason was obvious.
The American, if taken, might tell things.

"And"--Dupin gripped his cigar hungrily--"and Rodrigo?"

For answer the scout waved a hand vaguely up the trail.

"None went that way?" and the Colonel jerked his head toward the ravine.

"No, none. Your Mercy saw me driving them back."

"Quick, then, on your horse! We're losing time."

Don Tiburcio was reluctant. He had not yet recovered his money
from the American. "But the women, mi coronel? They are there, in that
shack. Hadn't I better stay----?"

"Jacqueline, you mean? Of course the little minx is in trouble, the
second she touches land. But you come with me. She shall have another
protector."

Tiburcio knew the Cossack chief. He obeyed, and both men galloped away
after the chase.

[Illustration: "COLONEL DUPIN"
"The Tiger of the Tropics ... the chief of Contra Guerrillas"]

They had not gone far when they passed Michel Ney swiftly returning. He
was the protector Dupin had in mind. He had seen Jacqueline in the
doorway of the hut as he stormed past with the Contra Guerrillas, but he
had been too enthusiastic to stop just then. He was a Chasseur
d'Afrique, and to be a Chasseur d'Afrique was to ride in a halo of
mighty sabre sweeps. And Michel had fought Arabs too--but the good
simplicity of his countenance was woefully ruffled as he turned back
from that charge of the Cossacks.

"Michel!" cried Jacqueline, stepping over the forms of men before the
hut, and forgetting them. The natty youth was torn, rumpled, grimy. The
sky-blue of his uniform was gray with dust. But to see him at all proved
that he had escaped