Well up to windward of the range fire, that fool horse Jones came to a finish sudden all a-straddle, swaying, nose down, and blood a-dripping. So far Curly had just stayed in the saddle from force of habit, but when the usual motion stopped between his knees he surely forgot to be alive any more, and dropped like a shot bird to grass. As for Jim, he was too stiff to dismount, but the buckskin mare lay down with him complete; so he rolled from the saddle, and managed to stagger around. He uncinched Jones' saddle, eased his mouth of the bit, loosed the mare's girth as she lay, then knelt by Curly feeling him over for wounds. He didn't know until then that Curly had a bullet in the right arm; but all that side was in a mess of dry blood, and when he cut away the coat it began to spurt. He plugged up the hole, made a bandage with his handkerchief, twisted it up with a stick until the blood quit coming, then rolled himself down, dead asleep beside his partner.

The big gale roared overhead; a haze of flying dust; the country to the north was a flaming volcano; the sky was a whirl of clouds, all painted purple and crimson with the daybreak; but my kids and their horses cared nothing more at all for storm or fire. Then the skyline along the east began to glow white-hot, burned by the lift of the sun; and stark black against that rode a bunch of horsemen. They were coming from La Morita Custom House to find out what sort of felons had set the range on fire. They were Mexican Frontier Guards.

Their lieutenant told me afterwards that when they saw the played-out horses and those two poor kids who lay between them, they thought the whole outfit must be dead. They reckoned up Jim for one of their countrymen, and surely did everything in their power to act merciful.

Firing the range comes pretty near being a serious thing, causing inconvenience to cattle, apt to annoy settlers by burning their homes and cooking their wives and families. Naturally that sort of play is discouraged, and the Frontier Guards was only acting up to their lights in arresting my youngsters. Still, they didn't act haughty and oppressive, but sent a rider off to fetch their waggon for the prisoners, and meanwhile made camp and boiled them a drink of coffee.

The teniente woke them up, gave them their coffee and told them their sins, while the rest of the greasers, talking all at once, explained what their officer meant. As to Jim and Curly, they were interested in that coffee a whole lot, and ready to excuse the Frontier Guards; but the worries and troubles of a pack of greasers only made them tired; so they told them not to fuss, and slept through the rest of the sermon. When they woke up again, they found themselves in prison.

That calaboose at La Morita is built of the usual adobe, sun-dried brick, with a ceiling of cactus sticks laid on beams to carry a couple of feet of solid earth. A 'dobe house is the next thing to comfort in a climate like ours, where the sun will scorch a man's hide worse than boiling water. The Frontier Guards had laid clean hay on the dirt floor, and hung an olla of water to cool in the draught, but when my boys woke up they were sure puzzled, for the night had fallen, the moon was not yet stirring, and the place was surely dark as a wolf's mouth. Stiff and sore from hard riding, Jim got up to grope in the darkness, ravaging around in search of grub. He found hay and water, but nothing else, so thought he must have been changed into a horse, and set up a howl for corn. Then he attracted Curly's notice by tumbling over his bed.

"How many laigs have yo' got?" says Curly, "'cause that's ample. Catch me some water."

Jim reached down the hanging jar, and Curly drank. "I been waiting hours for that," says he; "now sluice my arm."

Jim threw cool water on the wound. "Is it very bad?" he asked.

"It's sure attracting my attention, Jim."

"Can I do anything?"

"Yes, next time you're falling around don't use my laigs—they're private. Whar is this place?"

Jim looked up at a window-gap, high in the 'dobe wall, and saw the starlight checkered with iron bars; then listening, he heard a muttering of Spanish talk, and noticed the door of the cell lined out with a glimmer from the guardroom.

"It smells bad, like a trap," said Curly.

"I wonder," says Jim, "what time they feed the animals? I'm starving."

"My two sides," says Curly, "is rubbing together, and I'm sure sorrowful. We done got captured somehow."

"I remember now. They gave us coffee. They must have been Frontier Guards—so this is La Morita."

"Why did they gather us in? We didn't spoil any greasers."

"No, but we fired the grass."

"It was not their grass—we set fire to Arizona."

"I don't think they mind," says Jim, "whose grass we burned. They've got us, and they won't worry about the details. You see, they've got to make a play at being useful, old chap, or else their Government would get tired and forget to send their wages."

"What will they do to us?"

"Keep us three days to cool, then find us guilty, and send us down to Fronteras."

"I remember," says Curly, "when I was riding that year for Holy Cross I saw——"

"The little wayside crosses?"

"Yes, everywhere on the Mexican side of the line—the little wooden grave signs by the trail."

Curly and Jim sat there in the dark, and thought of the wooden crosses. They understood, but I believe it's up against me to explain for folks who don't know that country. You see, there used to be only two industries in old Mexico, silver mining and stealing, but most of the people made a living by robbing each other. Then the great President Diaz came along, who had been a robber himself. He called up all the robbers he'd known in the way of business, and hired them as a sort of Mounted Rangers and Frontier Guards to wipe out the rest of the thieves. That made the whole Republic peaceful, but when there were no more robbers to shoot, the Rangers and Guards began to feel monotonous, the country being plumb depleted of game.

Well, thanks to Diaz, Mexico has gone so tame that life ain't really worth living, and the Frontier Guards are scared of being disbanded because they're obsolete. Likewise the Mexican people are so humane that they don't allow capital punishment, and the Guards feel a heap discouraged about what few prisoners they catch. They're fearful pleased if they get a thief who doesn't happen to be their own cousin, most especially if he's a white man, real game and in season. That's why they lash him hands and feet to a horse, trot him off into the desert, and take pot shots at him by way of practice. Afterwards they report him for 'attempted escape.' His relations are allowed to bury him comfortable, and put up a cross to his memory. That is why the trails along the Mexican frontier are all lined with neat little crosses.

"You reckon," says Curly, "that we'll have little crosses?"

"It's beastly awkward," says Jim, "but we've got to take our medicine."

"And yet I dunno," says Curly, thoughtful about those crosses; "if we get spoilt that way, the United States won't be pleased. You see, there's a reward out for me, and yo're wanted bad, so Uncle Sam will be asking Mexico, and say, 'Why did you shoot my meat?'"

The voices in the guardroom had quit muttering, but now a horseman pulled up at the front door.

"Buenas noches hombre!"

And somebody answered: "Buenas tardes seÑor!"

Then talk began in Spanish. "Can a feed of corn be bought here for the horse? He arrives from Grave City."

"What news of the gringoes?"

"Muchos. El SeÑor Don Rex has been shot."

"Don Rex has been murdered?"

"No, it was a fight. It must be understood that his son, Don Santiago——"

"What, El Chico?"

"Yes, El Chico 'Jim,' had a feud against the very rich SeÑor Ryan. He hired ladrones from the north, the Robbers' Roost Gang it is called, to murder SeÑor Ryan. It seems the ladrones wore masks, and they were led by a young robber named Curly, for whom great rewards are offered—two thousand pesos d'oro, dead or alive."

"What a reward!"

"Yes, El Chico and this Curly led the robbers, and they attacked SeÑor Ryan in the 'Sepulchre' saloon. El Chico killed SeÑor Ryan himself, and wounded Miguel his son. There are many witnesses, and a warrant is out against Don Santiago for that murder. I saw the warrant."

"But you say Don Rex was killed?"

"He also; many others were killed in the battle. Curly shot Louisiana and another also. Then these ladrones escaped from the city."

"But the population!"

"You judge well, corporal—the population followed. There was riding!"

"And yet these ladrones escaped?"

"So, except El Chico and Curly, the two leaders. The posse caught them near Las Salinas."

"And got the great reward—two thousand pesos d'oro!"

"But wait. These two caballeros would not submit, but fought and killed a lot more citizens; yes, even escaped. They reached the iron-way which runs down towards Bisley, and there again they fought terribly. Then the big posse chased them clear through to the boundary-line."

"They were not caught!"

"They fired the desert!"

"Car-r-amba!"

"Yes, stampeded a hundred riders! You must have seen the fire at dawn this morning."

"Todos Santos! That was El Chico Santiago disguised as a vaquero?"

"Yes, and Curly as a farm boy—you saw them?"

"Man, we've got them here in chains! Two thousand pesos d'oro! Por Dios! You have made me rich with your news!"

"In chains, corporal? Then they did not escape after all! They fought like caballeros, and now they'll be claimed for extradition, taken back, and hanged! Hombre, that's no death for caballeros! How did you ever take such fighters, corporal?"

"Oh, just arrested them."

"But they fought a hundred Americanos!"

"Yes, yes, but we are Frontier Guards—me and another man; we just arrested them, that's all. Two thousand pesos!"

"They fought?"

"Oh, yes, we had to disable one of them; in fact I myself shot him through the pistol arm. Then they surrendered, made their bow to force. Two thousand golden dollars!"

"Miraculous! Well, seÑor corporal, may it be permitted to ask where forage is sold?"

"Certainly, step this way. I, Pablo Juarez, rich! Two thousand! Santa Catalina, thou shalt have candles, a box of candles!"

The voices faded out, and Jim lay back, wiping the sweat from his face. "Wheugh"—then he burst out laughing—"the liars," he howled, "the gentle, earnest liars! Oh, pat me, Curly, for I'm weak—the lop-eared, spavined, sway-backed, cock-eyed liars!"

But Curly was shy of Spanish, and wanted the news. "What liars?"

"Everybody—they're all liars—the whole world—liars! Liars! They couldn't leave it to facts, which are bad enough, but they've lied, and sworn to lies and perjured themselves with oaths, the thugs, the dirty bar-room toughs, selling their souls to that young Ryan—and made a remnant sale of themselves for witnesses that I murdered an old man!"

"What, Ryan? It wasn't you who spoiled old Ryan. It was your father in honest fighting!"

"Who cares for honesty when there's a millionaire to pay for souls in cash? They swear that I hired you and all your robbers to have old Ryan murdered, then did the killing myself, and turned loose your gang to massacre Ryan's friends—the cowards, the lying cowards!"

"But them boys with masks was Chalkeye's riders, and he just covered their faces, Jim, to save them afterwards."

"And who'll believe that? Here's a millionaire to buy the witnesses, the lawyers, the judge, the law! The only man who was there and can't be bribed is that leary old cow-thief Chalkeye, but he's mixed up with us, and likely enough a prisoner by now. Do you think that a Grave City court of justice would believe an honest man? No, we're trapped, and we're sold, and we're going to be butchered now."

"Well," says Curly in that slow, soft way he had, "I allow it's done you good to turn yo' wolf loose, and you've shorely howled; it done me good to hear all the cussing said while I lay restin'. That's relieved me a lot and made me plumb forgetful of being in pain."

Jim began talking haughty, and wanted to know if Curly liked the notion of being hanged.

"That I shorely do," says Curly very soft. "You see, only a while back we was going to be taken out sudden and shot—which it was a caution to yaller snakes only to think of. That didn't make me happy a lil' bit, but now we got more prospects, a slow trial coming, time to turn around in, and think out how to escape."

That sobered Jim, but it made him hostile, too. "Youngster, will nothing scare you?" he asked; "can't get a whimper out of you even for company's sake—you're so beastly selfish."

Curly rolled over, resting his face on his hand. "I was raised that way," says he very quiet, "goin' to be shot up or hung most of the time. It's a risky thing bein' alive when you come to think of it, eh? We-all is mighty or'nary folks in a trifling sort of world, Jim; but I reckon it's sure nice being heah. We got sweet range hay to lie on, and hopes of a feed in the mawning; the place is sure quiet, but we cayn't complain of being dull. As to our lil' worries, I don't fuss about crossing a river until I done reached the bank."

"I wish," Jim groaned, "that I'd got half your courage."

"I've suffered some," says Curly, "and I reckon that what you call courage is just training. Now you, Jim, you lie down, and think about something to eat, and presently yo're goin' to drop off asleep, dreaming of good camps where there's feed and water. If that ain't good I'll wake you up in the night, so's you'll get two sleeps, which is even better'n one."