e patted
affectionately a bottle that lay snug in his pocket.

"Who goes?" demanded one of the prison guards as he approached.

"Pedro Cabenza."

Steve chatted with them for a few moments before he produced his bird in
the hand. They told him of what Pasquale had promised. Slyly he looked
around to see that they were alone and drew from his pocket the bottle.

"Ho, companero! Behold what I have. Gringo whiskey--better far than
mescal," he cried softly as he handed the treasure to one of the guards.

The man glanced around hurriedly, even as had Cabenza, then tilted the
mouth of the bottle over his lips and let a long stiff drink gurgle down
his throat. He patted his fat paunch contentedly and handed the bottle
to his companion. The second guard also drank deeply.

Cabenza put an arm across the shoulders of each and drew their heads
close while he whispered confidential scandal about Pasquale and Ramon
Culvera. The two men listened greedily, eager for more. It happened that
there was no truth in the salacious tidbits which Pedro retailed, but he
invented glibly and that did just as well.

The heads of his listeners began to nod. They murmured drowsy
interjections and leaned more heavily upon his arms. Ineffectually they
tried to shake off the lassitude that was creeping over their senses.

"Keep watch, brother, while I take just forty winks," begged one, and
fairly thrust his rifle into the hand of Yeager.

The soldier staggered to the adobe wall and slumped down beside the
door. His eyes closed, fluttered open again, shut a second time. They
did not open. He was fast asleep.

The second guard sat down beside him and smiled up sleepily at the
standing man. "Manuel sleeps on duty. He is--a fool. I do--not--sleep.
No, I--I--"

His head drooped on his chest. Steve took the rifle that fell from his
relaxed hand.

Instantly the American was tapping gently on the door.
"Threewit--Farrar!" he called softly. "This is Steve."

There was the sound of quick footsteps. A voice within answered in a
whisper.

"Yes, Steve. This is Frank."

From his pocket the range-rider took a bunch of skeleton keys. It was no
trouble to find one that would unlock the door, but in addition to this
fastening there was a padlock. With a hatchet which he had brought
Yeager pried the staple out. In another moment the door was open.

"Help me drag these fellows inside," ordered the cowpuncher, taking
command promptly. "Frank, tear one o