elieved the American of his
revolver, and announced that the general would see him.

Pasquale was at breakfast with one of his lieutenants, a slender young
man with black sleek hair who sat with his back to the door. From the
first moment that his eyes fell upon that lithe, graceful figure the
American knew that presently he would be looking into the face of Ramon
Culvera. A chill shudder passed through him for an instant. If the
gambler recognized him he was lost.

But as yet Culvera had not taken the trouble to turn. He was eating a
banana indolently and stray Gringos did not greatly interest him.

"You want to see me, senor," demanded Pasquale in Spanish.

"I'm out of a job--thought maybe you could give me something to do. I
met Tom Neal. He figured you might."

"In the army? Do you want to fight?"

Pasquale leaned back in his chair and looked at his guest from narrowed
eyes that expressed intelligent energy and brutality. He was smiling,
but there was something menacing even about his smile. It struck Steve
that he was as simple, as natural, and about as humane as a wolf. He was
not tall, but there was unusual breadth and depth to his shoulders.
Something of the Indian was in the high cheekbones of his rough,
unshaven, coffee-colored face. The old ruffian looked what he was, a
terrible man, one who could brush out a human life as lightly as he did
the ash from his cigar.

"I don't know. Perhaps. Can you give me a commission?"

"Hmp!" The beadlike eyes of the bandit took in shrewdly the competence
of this quiet, brown-faced man. He might be a thief and a
murderer,--very likely was since he had crossed the border to join the
insurgents,--but it was a safe bet that he had the fighting edge. Men of
this particular stripe were needed to lick his tattered, nondescript
recruits into shape. "Where you from? Who knows you?"

Culvera slewed round in his seat and glanced at the man standing behind
his chair. The indifference did not fade out of his eyes.

"I've been with the Lunar Film Company. Before that I was riding for the
Lone Star cattle outfit," answered Yeager.

The younger Mexican showed a flicker of interest. "The Lunar Film
Company? Do you know a man named Harrison, senor?"

"Yes."

"And a boy named Pheelip Seymour?"

"I've just met him. He doesn't work for the company."

Culvera turned to his chief. "It is this Pheelip that shot Mendoza, he
and another Gringo."

Pasquale nodded, still watching Y