"The kid is asleep--in the office," he whispered to the collector.

Waring knew that the flicker of an eyelid, an intonation, a gesture, might precipitate trouble. He also knew that diplomacy was out of the question. He glanced round the room, pushed back his chair, and, rising, stepped to the bar. With his back against it, he faced the captain.

"Miguel," he said quietly, "you're too far over the line. Go home!"

The captain rose. "Your Government shall hear of this!"

"Yes. Wire 'em to-night. And where do you get off? You'll get turned back to the ranks."

"I?"

"Si, Senor Capitan, and because--_you didn't get your man_."

The collector of customs stood with his cigar carefully poised in his left hand. The a.s.sistant pushed back his hat and rumpled his black hair.

All official significance set aside, Waring and the captain of rurales faced each other with the blunt challenge between them: "You didn't get your man!"

The captain glanced at the two quiet figures in the doorway. Beyond them were his own men, but between him and his command were two of the fastest guns in the Southwest. He was on alien ground. This gringo had insulted him.

Waring waited for the word that burned in the other's eyes.

The collector of customs drew a big silver watch from his waistband.

"It's about time--to go feed the horses," he said.

With the sound of his voice the tension relaxed. Waring eyed the captain as though waiting for him to depart. "You'll find that horse in the corral--back of the customs office," he said.

The Mexican swung round and strode out, followed by his man.

The rurales mounted and rode down the street. The three Americans followed a few paces behind. Opposite the office, they paused.

"Go along with 'em and see that they get the right horse," said the collector.

The a.s.sistant hesitated.

The collector laughed. "Shake hands with Jim Waring, Jack."

When the a.s.sistant had gone, the collector turned to Waring. "That's Jack every time. Stubborn as a tight boot, but good leather every time.

Know why he wanted to shake hands? Well, that's his way of tellin' you he thinks you're some smooth for not pullin' a fight when it looked like nothing else was on the bill."

Waring smiled. "I've met you before, haven't I?"

Pat pretended to ignore the question. "Say, stranger," he began with slow emphasis, "you're makin' mighty free and familiar for a prisoner arrested for smuggling. Mebby you're all right personal, but officially I got a case against you. What do you know about raising cuc.u.mbers? I got a catalogue in the office, and me and Jack has been aiming to raise cuc.u.mbers from it for three months. I like 'em. Jack says you can't do it down here without water every day. Now--"

"Where have you planted them, Pat?"

"Oh, h.e.l.l! They ain't _planted_ yet. We're just figuring. Now, up Las Cruces way--"

"Let's go back to the cantina and talk it out. There goes Mexico leading a horse with an empty saddle. I guess the boy will be all right in the office."

"Was the kid mixed up in your getaway?"

"Yes. And he's a good boy."

"Well, he's in dam' bad company. Now, Jack says you got to plant 'em in hills and irrigate. I aim to just drill 'em in and let the A'mighty do the rest. What do you think?"

"I think you're getting worse as you grow older, Pat. Say, did you ever get track of that roan mare you lost up at Las Cruces?"

"Yes, I got her back."

"Speaking of horses, I saw a pinto down in Sonora--"

Just then the a.s.sistant joined them, and they sauntered to the cantina.

Dex, tied at the rail, turned and gazed at them. Waring took the morral of grain from the saddle, and, slipping Dex's bridle, adjusted it.

The rugged, lean face of the collector beamed. "I wondered if you thought as much of 'em as you used to. I aimed to see if I could make you forget to feed that cayuse."

"How about those goats in your own corral?" laughed Waring.

"Kind of a complimentary cuss, ain't he?" queried Pat, turning to his a.s.sistant. "And he don't know a dam' thing about cuc.u.mbers."

"You old-timers give me a pain," said the a.s.sistant, grinning.

"That's right! Because you can't set down to a meal without both your hands and feet agoing and one ear laid back, you call us old because we chew slow. But you're right. Jim and I are getting kind of gray around the ears."

"Well, you fellas can fight it out. I came over to say that them rurales got their hoss. But one of 'em let it slip, in Mexican, that they weren't through yet."

"So?" said Pat. "Well, you go ahead and feed the stock. We'll be over to the house poco tiempo."

Waring and the collector entered the cantina. For a long time they sat in silence, gazing at the peculiar half-lights as the sun drew down.

Finally the collector turned to Waring.

"Has the game gone stale, Jim?"

Waring nodded. "I'm through. I am going to settle down. I've had my share of trouble."

"Here, too," said the collector. "I've put by enough to get a little place up north--cattle--and take it easy. That's why I stuck it out down here. Had any word from your folks recent?"

"Not for ten years."

"And that boy trailing with you?"

"Oh, he's just a kid I picked up in Sonora. No, my own boy is straight American, if he's living now."

"You might stop by at Stacey, on the Santa Fe," said the collector casually. "There's some folks running a hotel up there that you used to know."

Waring thanked him with a glance. "We don't need a drink and the sun is down. Where do you eat?"

"We'll get Jack to rustle some grub. You and the boy can bunk in the office. I'll take care of your horse."