On the ground, around a low camp-fire, were seated four Mexicans.
Two of the number had rifles, that lay on the ground near them.
Behind them, an ugly scowl on his face, sat Gato, his back resting
against a rock.

"But you will not find your enemies out here to-night, Senor Gato,"
softly remarked one of the quartette around the fire.

"No," admitted Gato, in a growling voice.

"Then why are we waiting here?"

"Because it pleases me," snapped the big fellow. "What ails you?
Am I not paying you?"

"But two of us--and I am one of them--do not like to be seen,"
rejoined the speaker at the fire. "The troops hunt us. There
is a price on our heads."

"Bandits!" muttered Tom Reade, under his breath, as he drew back.
"I have heard that Mexico is overrun with bandits. These gentlemen
are some of the fraternity."

"Take us up to the house, Gato," urged one of the men at the fire.
"We shall know how to enter and find your friends. Everyone sleeps
there. It will be the safer way."

"It does not suit me," retorted Gato, sullenly.

"But why not?"