ent, general. I've got a letter here I wish you'd send north
for me. It explains that I shot myself accidentally--lets you out fine
in case Uncle Sam begins to ask inconvenient whys about my
disappearance."

"And why so much care to save me trouble?" inquired the insurgent leader
suspiciously.

"I have to put that in to get you to forward the letter, I reckon. What
I want is that my friends should know I'm dead."

As a soldier Pasquale could understand that desire. He hesitated. The
sudden death of Americans had of late stirred a good deal of resentment
across the line. Why not take the alibi Yeager so conveniently offered
him?

"Let's see your letter. But remember I promise nothing," said the
Mexican roughly.

Steve moved forward and gave it to him. His heart was pounding against
his ribs as does that of a frightened rabbit in the hand. If Pasquale
looked at the letter now he had a chance. If he put it in his pocket the
chance vanished.

The rebel chief glanced at the sheet of paper, opened it, and stepped
back into the moonlight. For just an instant his eyes left Yeager and
fell upon the paper. That moment belonged to Steve. Like a tiger he
leaped for the hairy throat of the man.

Pasquale, with a half-articulate cry, stumbled back. But the American
was on top of him, his strong, brown fingers were tightening on the
sinewy throat. They went down together, the Mexican underneath. As he
fell, the head of the general struck the edge of the table. The steel
grip of Steve's hand did not relax, for a single sharp cry would mean
death to him.

Just once Pasquale rolled half over before his body went slack and
motionless. He had fainted.

The first thing Yeager did was to take the bandanna handkerchief from
his neck and use it as a gag for his prisoner. He dragged the blankets
from their corner and tore one of them into strips. With these he bound
the hands of Pasquale behind him and tied his feet together. He
unloosened the revolver belt of the Mexican and strapped it about his
own waist. The silver-trimmed sombrero he put on his head and the serape
he flung round his shoulders and across the lower part of his face in
the same way the garment had been worn by its owner.

Steve glanced around to see that he had everything he needed.

"They's no manner o' doubt but you're taking a big chancet, son," he
drawled to himself after the manner of an old range-rider he knew. "But
we sure gotta take a long shot and gamb