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  When presently Barlow entered, Kendric looked up at him thoughtfully.

  Barlow bore along with him a subdued air of excitement.

  "You've just left Rios?" asked Kendric.

  "Yes." Barlow came in and closed the door, looking quickly and questioningly at his friend. He appeared to hesitate, then said hurriedly:

  "There are big things ahead, old Headlong! Big!"

  "Shoot," answered Kendric sharply. "What's the play, man?"

  Again Barlow hesitated, plainly in doubt just how far Kendric might be in sympathy with him.

  "It wouldn't make you mad to fill your pockets, Headlong, would it?"

  he asked. "Bulgin' full? And you wouldn't mind a scrap or two and a blow or two in the job, would you?"

  "Watch your step, Twisty, old timer," said Kendric. "Rios has been talking revolution to you, has he? Sometimes an uprising down here is a nasty mess that it's easier to get into than out of again. And, if we get our hooks on the loot that brought us down here, why should we want to mix it with the federal government?"

  Barlow began tugging at his forelock.

  "I'm up a tree, Jim," he muttered at last. "Clean up a tree."

  "Then look out you light on your feet instead of on your head when you decide to come down. It would be easy to make a mistake right now."

  "Yes, easy; dead easy.--Old Headlong counseling caution!" Barlow laughed but with little genuine mirth.

  "I want a straight talk with you, Twisty," said Kendric soberly. "I for one don't like the lay-out here and I'm going to break for the open. You and I have fallen among a pack of damned thieves, to draw it mild. It strikes me we'd better understand each other."

  "Right!" cried Barlow eagerly. "Let's talk straight from the shoulder."

  But events, or rather Zoraida Castelmar who sought to usurp destiny's prerogatives here, ruled otherwise. There came a quiet rap at the door, then the voice of one of the housemaids, saying:

  "La Señorita Zoraida desires immediately to speak with Señor Barlow."

  Barlow, just easing himself into a chair, jumped up.

  "Coming," he called.

  Kendric, too, sprang up, his hand locking hard upon Barlow's arm.

  "Twisty," he said, "hold on a minute. The house isn't on fire."

  "Well?" Barlow's impatience glared out of his eyes. "What is it?"

  "I've got a very large, life-sized suspicion that it would be just as well if you sent back word you couldn't come. At least, not until we've had our talk."

  "She said immediately," said Barlow. And then, "You don't want me to see her? Why?"

  "Because, it you want to know, she isn't good for you. She'll seek to draw you in on this fool scheme of hers, and if you don't look out you'll do just what she says do. There never was a mere woman like her. She's uncanny, man! She will give you the same line of mad talk she gave me, she will make you the same sorts of offers----"

  "You've seen her then? Tonight? While I was out with Rios you were with her?"

  "Yes. And not because I found any pleasure in her company, either."

  Barlow jerked free, laughing his disbelief, his look at once unpleasant and suspicious.

  "Tell that to the marines," he jeered. He threw the door open and went out. In the hall Kendric could hear his steps sounding quick and eager.

  Kendric returned to his chair, perplexed. Then again he sprang up, throwing out his hands, shaking his shoulders as though to rid them of a troublesome weight.

  "Too much thinking isn't good for a man," he told himself lightly. "The game's made; let her roll!"

  He took a cigar from the table, lighted it and passed through the bath and adjoining room. A door opened to the outer corridor. He stepped out upon the flagstones and strolled down the aisle flanked on one side by the adobe wall of the house, on the other by the white columns and arches. The night was fine, clear and starlit; the fragrance of a thousand flowers lay heavy upon the-air; the babble of the outdoor fountain made merry music. He left the stone floor for the graveled driveway and put his head back to send a little puff of smoke upward toward the flash of stars.

  "It's a good old land, at that," he mused. "Big and clean and wide open."

  He strolled on, looking to right and left. Before him the gardens appeared deserted. But there were patches of inpenetrable blackness under the wider flung trees, and it seemed likely, from what Zoraida had said, that some of her rabble were watching him. If so, he deemed it as well to know for certain. So he kept straight on toward the whitewashed wall glimpsed through the foliage. He came to it and stopped; it was little higher than his head and would be no obstacle in itself. He shot out his hands, gripped the top and went up.

  And still no one to dispute his right to do as he pleased. He sat for a moment atop the wall, looking about him curiously. He marked that at each of the corners of the enclosure to be seen from where he sat, was a little square tower rising a dozen feet higher than the wall. In each tower a lamp burned. From the nearest one came the voices of two men.

  Tied near this tower and outside the wall were two horses; he saw them vaguely and heard the clink of bridle chains. Saddled horses. There would be saddled horses at each of the four towers; night and day, if Zoraida's talk were not mere boasting. The temptation to know just how strict was the guard kept moved him to drop to the ground, on the outside of the wall. He moved quickly, but his feet had not struck the grass when a sharp whistle cut through the still night. The whistle came from somewhere in the shadows within the enclosure.

  Kendric stood stone still. But had he been ready for flight he knew now that he could not have gone twenty paces before they stopped him.

  Where he had heard the voices of two men he now heard an overturned chair, jingle of spur and thud of boots, a sharp command. He saw two figures run out on the wall and leap down into the saddles just below.

  And he knew that in the other towers there had been like readiness and like action. For already he saw four mounted men and needed no telling that each man carried a rifle.

  He climbed back on the wall, his curiosity for the moment satisfied.

  And there he sat until one of the riders galloped to him. The man came close and said gruffly:

  "It is not permitted to cross the wall. It would be best if Señor Americano remembered. And went back to the house."

  "Right-o!" agreed Kendric cheerily. "I just wanted to be sure, compadre," and he turned and dropped back into the garden. "She holds the cards, ace, face and trump!" he conceded sweepingly. "But the game's to play." And, as again he strolled along the driveway, his thoughts were not unpleasant. For what had he come adventuring into Lower California if he weren't ready for what the day might bring? The situation had its zest. He wondered how many men were hidden about the garden, like the fellow who had watched him and whistled? How many were watching him now? He reflected as he walked on, but his conjectures were not so deep as to make him oblivious of his cigar. On the whole, for the night, he was content.

  Just as he turned the corner of the house a rider, coming from the double front gate, raced down the driveway and flung himself to the ground. A figure stepped out from the shadowy corridor and Kendric was near enough to recognize the second figure as that of Captain Escobar, even before he heard his sharp:

  "Is that you, Ramorez? What luck?"

  "Si, Señor Capitan. It is Ramorez. And the luck is fine!"

  "You have her?" Escobar's tone was exultant.

  "Just outside. Sancho is bringing her. I am here for orders. Where shall we take her?"

  "Here. Into the house. Señorita Castelmar knows everything and is with us."

  Ramorez swung back up into the saddle and spurred away, gone into the darkness under the trees toward the gate. Kendric stood where he was, receptive for any bit of understanding which might be vouchsafed him. He was satisfied with his position in the shadows; glad when Escobar stepped out so that the lamp light from within streamed across his face. Actually the man's hard eyes gloated.


  It was only a moment until Ramorez returned, another man riding knee and knee with him, a led horse following them. It was this animal and its rider that held Kendric's eyes. In the saddle was what appeared a weary little figure, drooping forward, clutching miserably at the horn of the saddle with both hands. As she came nearer and there was more light he saw the bowed head, made out that it was hatless, even saw how the hair was all tumbled and ready to fall about her shoulders.

  "You will get down, señorita." It was Escobar's voice, gloating like his eyes.

  The listless figure in the saddle made no reply, seemed bereft of any volition of its own. As Ramorez put up his hands to help her, she came down stiffly and stood stiffly, looking about her. Kendric, to see better, came on emerging from the shadows and stood, leaning against the wall, drawing slowly at his cigar and awaiting the end of the scene. So now, for the first time, he saw the girl's face as she lifted it to look despairingly around.

  "Oh," she cried suddenly, a catch in her voice, throwing out her two arms toward Escobar. "Please, please let me go!"

  The hair was falling about her face; she shook it back, still standing with her arms outflung imploringly. Kendric frowned. The girl was too fair for a Mexican; her hair in the lamp light was less dark than black and might well be brown; her speech was the speech of one of his own country.

  "An American girl!" he marveled. "These dirty devils have laid their hands on an American girl! And just a kid, at that."

  With her hair down, with a trembling "Please" upon her lips, she did not look sixteen.

  "I am so tired," she begged; "I am so frightened. Won't you let me go?

  Please?"

  Kendric fully expected her to break into tears, so heartbroken was her attitude, so halting were her few supplicating words. A spurt of anger flared up in his heart; to be harsh with her was like hurting a child. And yet he held resolutely back from interference. As yet no rude hand was being laid on her and it would be better if she went into the house quietly than if he should raise a flurry of wild hope in her frightened breast and evoke an outpouring of terrified pleadings, all to no avail.

  What he would have to say were best said to Escobar alone.

  Slowly her arms dropped to her sides. Her look went from face to face, resting longest on Jim Kendric's. He kept his lips tight about his cigar, shutting back any word to raise false hope just yet. The result was that the girl turned from him with a little shudder, seeing in him but another oppressor. She sighed wearily and, walking stiffly, passed to the door flung open by Ramorez and into the house. Escobar was following her when Kendric called to him. The bandit captain muttered but came back into the yard.

  "Well, señor?" he demanded impudently. "What have you to say to me?"

  "Who is that girl?" asked Kendric. "And what are you doing with her?"

  Escobar laughed his open insolence.

  "So you are interested? Pretty, like a flower, no? Well, she is not for you, Señor Americano, though she is of your own country. She is the daughter of a rich gentleman named Gordon, if you would know. Her papa calls her Betty and is very fond of her. Him I have let go back to the United States. That he may send me twenty-five thousand dollars for Señorita Betty. Are there other questions, señor?"

  "You've got a cursed high hand, Captain Escobar," muttered Kendric.

  "But let me tell you something: If you touch a hair of that poor little kid's head I'll shoot six holes square through your dirty heart." And he passed by Escobar and went into the house.

  He meant to tell the daughter of Gordon that he, too, was an American; that Barlow, another American, was on the job; that, somehow, they would see her through. But he was given only a fleeting glimpse of her as she passed out through a door across the room, escorted by the grave-eyed young woman who an hour ago had warned him not to anger Zoraida. He saw Betty Gordon's face distinctly now; she was fair, her hair was brown, he thought her eyes were gray. But before he could call to her she was gone, clinging to the arm of Zoraida's maid.

  "Poor little kid," muttered Kendric, staring after her. "I'd give my hat to have her on a horse, scooting for the New Moon. All alone among these pirates, with her dad the Lord knows where trying to dig up twenty-five thousand dollars for her!"

  At least she was no doubt well enough off for the night. She looked too tired to lie awake long, no matter what her distress. He returned to his rooms and sat down to wait again for Barlow.

  When at last Barlow came Kendric knew on the instant what success Zoraida had had with him. Twisty's eyes were shining; his head was up; he walked briskly like a man with his plans made and his heart in them.

  "You poor boob," muttered Kendric disgustedly. "Once you let a woman get her knife in your heart you're done for."

  Barlow swept up the brandy bottle and filled a glass brim full.

  "To Zoraida, Queen of Lower California!" he cried ringingly. He drank and smashed the glass upon the floor.

  Kendric sighed and shook his head hopelessly. And thanked God that he had never been the man to go mad over a pretty face.

  CHAPTER VIII

  HOW A MAN MAY CARRY A MESSAGE AND NOT KNOW

  HIMSELF TO BE A MESSENGER

  "There's no call for bad blood between you and me, Jim," said Barlow, plainly ill at his ease. "We've always been friends; let's stay friends. If we can't pull together in the deal that's comin', why, let's just split our trail two ways and let it go at that."

  "Fair enough," cried Kendric heartily. His companion thrust out a hand; Kendric took it warmly. Barlow looked relieved.

  "And," continued the sailor, "there's no sense forgettin' what we ran into this port for in the first place. There's the loot; no matter how or when we come at it, both together or single, we split it even?"

  "Fair again. The old-time Barlow talking."

  "All I've held out on you, Jim, is the exact location, so far as I know it.

  I'll spill that to you now, best I can. Then you can play out your string your way and I can play it out my way. As Juarez tipped me off, you've got three peaks to sail by; whether it's the three we saw first or the ones right off here, back of the house, I don't know any more than you do.

  But it ought to be easy tellin' when a man's on the spot. The middle peak ought to be a good fifty feet higher than the others and flat lookin'

  on top. In a ravine, between the tall boy and the one at the left, Juarez said there was a lot of scrub trees and brush. He said plow through the brush, keepin' to the up edge when you can get to it, until you come to about the middle of the patch. There a man would find a lot of loose rock, boulders that looked like they'd slid off the mountain. This rock, and the Lord knows how much of it there is, covers the hole that the old priest's writin' said that loot was in. And that's the yarn, every damn'

  word of it."

  "If it's the place back of the house," said Kendric, "it'll be a night job, all of it. It's not a half mile off and plain sight from here. Now, what's the likelihood of Escobar having been there ahead of us?"

  "Escobar's out of the runnin'." Barlow's eyes glinted with his satisfaction. "He's corked up here tighter'n a fly in a bottle. He isn't allowed to stick nose outside the walls after dark; and he isn't allowed to ride out of sight in the daytime. Those are little Escobar's orders.

  And, by cracky, I'll bet he minds 'em."

  "Who told you all that?"

  "She did."

  "What's she close-herding him for?"

  "Doesn't trust him; can you blame her? She's takin' her chances, and she knows it, plannin' the big things ahead. And she's not missin' a bet."

  "And more," remarked Kendric drily, "she hankers for the loot herself?"

  "She wouldn't know a thing about it," protested Barlow. "Escobar would keep his mouth shut; he's wise hog enough for that."

  "But she does know, Twisty. She knows that Escobar knifed Juarez; she knows why; she knows pretty nearly as much about the thing as we know."

  "She knows a lot of things,
" mused Barlow. But he shook his head:

  "She's shootin' high, Headlong; no penny-ante game for her! Not that what we're lookin' for sounds little; but it ain't in her path and she's not turnin' aside for anything. And she's the richest lady in Mexico right now. Those pearls of hers, man, are worth over a hundred thousand dollars, or I'm a fool. I saw them again tonight; she let me have them in my hands. And that ruby; did you see it? Why, kings can't sport stones like that in their best Sunday crowns."

  "She contends that she is a descendent of the old Mexican kings,"

  offered Kendric coolly. "And any treasure, left by the Montezumas, she claims by right of inheritance!"

  "She couldn't get across with a claim like that, could she? Not in any law court, Jim?"

  "Not unless the jurors were all men and she could get them off alone, one at a time, and whisper in their ears," grunted Kendric.

  Barlow laughed and they dropped the subject. Kendric told Barlow what he had learned during the evening; how the walls were sentinelled and how at the present moment under the same roof with them was an American girl, held for ransom.

  "And, according to Escobar," he concluded, watching his old friend's face, "the trick is put over with the connivance of Miss Castelmar. This would seem to be one of the headquarters of the great national game!"

  "Well?" snapped the sailor. "What of it? If you can get away with a game like that it pays big and fast. And who the devil sent you and me down this way to preach righteousness? It's their business--but, cut-throat cur that that little bandit hop o' my thumb is, I don't believe a word he says."

  "And if you did believe, it would be just the same?" There was a queer note in his voice. "Well, Twisty, old mate, I guess you've said it. Our trail forks. Good night."

  "Good night," growled Barlow. Each went into his own bedroom; the doors closed after them.

  For a couple of hours Kendric sat in the dark by his window, staring out into the gardens, pondering. Of two things he was certain: He was not going to remain shut up in the Hacienda Montezuma if there was a way to break for the open; and he was not going to leave Lower California without his share of the buried treasure or at least without knowing that the tale was a lie. And, little by little, a third consideration forced itself in with its place with these matters; he could not get out of his mind the picture of the "poor little kid of a girl" in Escobar's hands.