e
who had seen the inside of Government penitentiaries--and they were
quite satisfied to be so eclipsed. But the Service knew of the ghost,
as it knew everything pertaining to the border, and gave it no serious
thought; if it took interest in all the ghosts and superstitions
peculiar to the Mexican temperament it would have no time for serious
work. Martin once, in a spirit of savage denial, had wasted the better
part of several successive Friday nights in the San Miguel, but to no
avail. When told that the ghost showed itself only to Mexicans he had
shrugged his shoulders eloquently and laughed, also eloquently.

"A Greaser," he replied, "is one-half fear and superstition, an' the
other half imagination. There ain't no ghosts, but I know the _Greasers_
have seen 'em, all right. A Greaser can see anything scary if he makes
up his mind to. If _I_ ever see one an' he keeps on being one after
I shoot, I'll either believe in ghosts, or quit drinking." His eyes
twinkled as he added: "An' of the two, I think I'd _prefer_ to see
ghosts!"

He was flushed and restless with deviltry. His fifth glass always
made him so; and to-night there was an added stimulus. He believed
the strange Mexican to be Juan Alvarez, who was so clever that the
Government had never been able to convict him. Alvarez was fearless to
recklessness and Martin, eager to test him, addressed the group with the
blunt terseness for which he was famed, and hated.

"Greasers are cowards," he asserted quietly, and with a smile which
invited excitement. He took a keen delight in analyzing the expressions
on the faces of those hit. It was one of his favorite pastimes when
feeling coltish.

The group was shocked into silence, quickly followed by great unrest and
hot, muttered words. Martin did not move a muscle, the smile was set,
but between the half-closed eyelids crouched Combat, on its toes. The
Mexicans knew it was there without looking for it--the tone of his
voice, the caressing purr of his words, and his unnatural languor were
signs well known to them. Not a criminal sneaking back from voluntary
banishment in Mexico who had seen those signs ever forgot them, if he
lived. Martin watched the group cat-like, keenly scrutinizing each face,
reading the changing emotions in every shifting expression; he had this
art down so well that he could tell when a man was debating the pull of
a gun, and beat him on the draw by a fraction of a second.

"De senor ees meest