leaned in the cavernous doorway. The tarnished insignia on
his collar indicated an officer of Confederate cavalry. He was smoking a
cob pipe, of which he seemed quite fond. And as a return for such
affection, the venerable Missouri meerschaum lent to its young master an
air that was comfortably domestic and peaceable. The trooper wore a
woolen shirt. His boots were rough and heavy. Hard wear and weather had
softened his gray hat into a disreputable slouch affair. A broad
black-leather belt sagged about his middle from the weight of
cartridges. Under his ribs on either side protruded the butt of a
navy-six, thrust in between shirt and trousers. He watched with dozing
interest the muleteers inside as they roped up straw, tightened straps,
and otherwise got ready for departure. Then Anastasio Murguia appeared
coming up the street, just from his lately recorded interview with Fra
Diavolo. The weazened little old Mexican was in a fretful humor, and his
glance at the lounging Southerner was anything but cordial. He would
have passed on into the meson, but the other stopped him.

"Well, Murgie, are we projecting to start to-night?" the trooper
inquired in English. "Eh?--What say?"

What Don Anastasio had said was nothing at all, but being thus urged, he
mumbled a negative.

"Not starting to-night?" his questioner repeated. "Now, why don't
we?--What?--Lordsake, man, dive! Bring up that voice there for once!"

Murguia sank to the chin in his black coat. Glancing apprehensively at
the cavalryman's long arm, he edged away to the farther side of the
doorway. Experience had accustomed the ancient trader to despots, but in
this cheery youngster of a Gringo the regal title was not clear, which
simply made tyranny the more irksome. The Gringo was the veriest
usurper. He did not justify his sway by the least ferocity. He never
uttered a threat. Where, then, was his right to the sceptre he wielded
so nonchalantly? Were there only some tangible jeopardy to his pelt,
Murguia would have been more resigned. But his latest autocrat was only
matter-of-fact, blithely and aggravatingly matter-of-fact.

By every rule governing man's attitude toward man, the Senor Don should
have been the bully, and the youngster the cringing sycophant. For since
their very odd meeting two weeks before, the tyrant had been in the
power of the tyrannized. It began on Murguia's own boat, where Murguia
was absolute. Any time after leaving Mobile he had merely to