was a squarely built man, about forty years of age, with a face
expressive of intense determination, which at the moment was partially
hidden by a slouch hat pulled down over the forehead, and a pair of
spectacles. He was clad in brown canvas, very much as was Ridge
himself; but except for facings of blue on collar and sleeve be wore no
distinctive mark of rank. For a few minutes the two talked of the
Alamo and all that it represented. Then the stranger asked, abruptly,

"Do you belong to the Rough Riders?"

"No," replied Ridge, "but I hope to. I am going to make application to
join them to-morrow, or rather I believe a friend is making it for me
this evening. Are you one of them, sir?"

"Yes, though I have not yet joined. In fact, I have only just reached
San Antonio."

"So have I," said Ridge. "I came in on the Eastern train less than an
hour ago."

"Strange that I did not see you," remarked the other. "Were you in the
Pullman?"

"No, I was in a private car."

"I noticed that there was one, though I did not know to whom it
belonged. Is it yours?"

"Oh no!" laughed Ridge. "I am far too poor to own anything so
luxurious. It belongs to my friend, Mr. Roland Van Kyp, of New York."