observations and
reports. Such are the needs of war."

"Of course," another rider nodded understandingly. "And as alcalde you
have many deputies."

"As well as many--er--observation officers like ourselves to supply," a
third supplemented, slyly dropping one eyelid.

The fourth man said nothing for a time. Then, rather unexpectedly, he
asked: "And what do you give them in exchange, alcalde?"

Bartlett turned in some surprise. "I give them notes of hand," he
answered half resentfully. "Notes redeemable in American gold--when the
war is over."

"And, are these notes negotiable security? Will your shop-keepers accept
them in lieu of coin?"

"At proper discounts--yes," said Bartlett, flushing.

"I have heard," the other remarked almost musingly, "that they are
redeemable at from fifteen to twenty per cent. And that the only man who
accepts them at even half of their face value is McTurpin the gambler."

"That is not my business," Bartlett answered brusquely. The quintet rode
on, absorbed and silent. Below them swept green reaches of ranch land,
dotted here and there with cattle and horses or the picturesque
haciendas of old Spanish families. The camino stretched white and broad
before them, winding through rolling hillocks, shaded sometimes by huge
overhanging trees.

"Isn't this Francisco Sanchez, whom we go to visit, a soldier, a former
commandante of your town, alcalde?" asked a rider.

"Yes, the same one who ran away when Montgomery came." Bartlett laughed.
"It was several days before he dared come out of the brush to take a
look at the 'gringo invader.'"

"I met him at the reception to Commodore Stockton," said the man who
rode beside Bartlett. "He didn't impress me as a timid chap, exactly.
Something of a fire-eater, I'd have said."

"Oh, they're all fire-eaters--on the surface," Bartlett's tone was
disdainful. "But you may all judge for yourselves in a moment. For, if
I'm not mistaken, he's coming up the road to meet us."

"By jove, he sits his horse like a king," said Bartlett's companion,
admiringly. "Who are those chaps with him? Looks like a sort
of--reception committee."

"They are Guerrero and Vasquez and--oh, yes, young Benito Windham,"
Bartlett answered. He spurred his horse and the others followed; there
was something about the half careless formation of the four riders ahead
which vaguely troubled the alcalde.

"Buenos dias, caballeros," he saluted in his faulty Spanish.

"Buenos dias,