"That," replied the outlaw, "was _his_ part of the bargain."

"Whose?"

"Anastasio Murguia's."

"Rod, you talk like a----"

"But no, senor, it's because you Americans cannot understand. Murguia
also believes in vengeance. I haven't seen him either, not since he sold
his hacienda over a year ago. But I do know that he or some spy of his
is in the capital, for a messenger from him came to me in the mountains.
The messenger said that the Marquesa d'Aumerle was leaving for
Queretero. If I captured her, it would be vengeance in kind. But Murguia
wanted pay for his information. He wanted that cross--it was his
daughter's--and I was to send it to him through you. Dios mio, but I had
to hurry! A little more, and the Marquesa would have been inside your
lines."

"She is already," Driscoll corrected him, "and so are you. Will you
fight it out, or surrender?"

He pointed to the Grays as he spoke. They had dismounted, and each man
had a rifle at aim across his saddle. It was a reminiscence out of
Driscoll's boyhood of Indians and the Santa Fe trail. But Don Rodrigo
only smiled.

"You want the coach first?" he said.

"No!" Driscoll retorted. "You're the one that's wanted, and you can
either wait for your trial, or be shot now, fighting. The coach will
have to take its chances. But see here, if the firing once starts, not a
thief among you will be left standing----"

It was a perilous "bluff," and none might say if it would have broken
the deadlock. But the outlaw interrupted.

"Listen! What's that?"

"Oh, nothing. We're only throwing a few bombs into Queretero."

"Only!" The brigand's eyes flashed, and his voice was filled with envy.
Throwing bombs among the traitors?--and magnificence like that had grown
common! Yet he, whose patriotism was a passion that fed and thrived upon
itself, must be barred from such exquisite satiety.

Driscoll understood, and thought it droll. First there was that loyal
Imperialist, Don Tiburcio, frothing chagrin because he had had to
desert. And now here was this rabid Republican, heart broken over being
outlawed from the ranks of his country's avengers.

Again Rodrigo interrupted, more excitedly yet. "Senor, senor, you don't
shoot them that way every day? What does it mean?"

Both gazed across the plain to the city of domes under the green hills.
Driscoll's chin raised, and he listened intently. What had commenced
like indolent target practice against a beleaguered town had suddenly