g to overcome in
a girl. There's got to be strong measures. It's got to be _jolted_
out of her. _Archimagnifico, there's_ the point!"

Mr. Boone drew out a black cigar, and mangled it between his teeth. He
pondered and pondered, absent-mindedly kicking at natives he bumped
into. "Kidnap 'em!" he cried at length. "N-o," he reflected, "they go in
the public stage, and what with the escort, somebody'd get hurt. We
don't want any dead men at this wedding. Old Brothers and Sisters would
balk anyhow, and our ecclesiastical officiator is the boy we _do_
need. Now what the everlasting----"

He meant what salutary jolt he _could_ invent, barring holdups, but
in the same breath he meant also a most startling scene which revealed
itself as he turned the corner.

A deafening crash of musketry was the first thing, and he looked up. He
had come into a small plaza before a church, and against the church's
blank wall a scene was taking place before an awe-stricken throng. He
understood. Another proscribed "traitor" had just been caught; and
executed, naturally. But no, not executed! For as the officer of the
shooting squad approached to give the stroke of mercy, the prostrate
victim raised himself by one hand and knocked aside the pistol at his
head. Then he laughed in the officer's face, the most diabolical and
unearthly mirth any there had ever heard. There was not a stain of blood
on him. He had dropped in the breath of eternity before the bullets
spattered past. But his uplifted face, with chin tilted back, was
swollen, black, distorted, corded by pulsing veins, and one of the
eyes--a crossed eye--bulged round and purple out of its socket, and
_gleamed_. The demon of pain was tearing at the man's tissue of
life, but by grip of will unspeakable the agony in that grimace changed
to a smile.

"Yes, poison! Vitriol!" he chattered at them hideously. "Adios,
imbeciles. It's my last--jest!"

Whereat he fell, writhing as the acid burned to his soul. Before the
astounded officer could shoot, he had grown entirely quiet.

Boone strained and pushed against the crowd until he reached the spot.
The cadaver was in tight charro garb of raw leather. His sombrero lay
near, on which was worked a Roman sword, meaning "Woe to the conquered!"
Boone turned inquiringly to the officer. The man, who was pallid,
touched his thumb to his cap, recognizing the uniform of the Grays.

"You should know him, mi coronel," he explained. "His name was Tiburci