settlement at the Lone Wolf Crossing of the Frio, twenty miles away.

Six feet two, blond as a Viking, quiet as a deacon, dangerous as a
machine gun, Sandridge moved among the _Jacales_, patiently seeking
news of the Cisco Kid.

Far more than the law, the Mexicans dreaded the cold and certain
vengeance of the lone rider that the ranger sought. It had been one of
the Kid's pastimes to shoot Mexicans "to see them kick": if he
demanded from them moribund Terpsichorean feats, simply that he might
be entertained, what terrible and extreme penalties would be certain
to follow should they anger him! One and all they lounged with
upturned palms and shrugging shoulders, filling the air with "_quien
sabes_" [67] and denials of the Kid's acquaintance.

[FOOTNOTE 67: quien sabe--(Spanish) who knows?]

But there was a man named Fink who kept a store at the Crossing--a man
of many nationalities, tongues, interests, and ways of thinking.

"No use to ask them Mexicans," he said to Sandridge. "They're afraid
to tell. This _hombre_ they call the Kid--Goodall is his name, ain't
it?--he's been in my store once or twice. I have an idea you might run
across him at--but I guess I don't keer to say, myself. I'm two
seconds later in pulling a gun than I used to be, and the difference
is worth thinking about. But this Kid's got a half-Mexican girl at the
Crossing that he comes to see. She lives in that _jacal_ a hundred
yards down the arroyo at the edge of the pear. Maybe she--no, I don't
suppose she would, but that _jacal_ would be a good place to watch,
anyway."