Feeny's suspicions were redoubled, and he picked out Trooper Latham, a
New Englander whom some strange and untoward fate had led into the
ranks, and stationed him in the bullet-scarred bar-room of the ranch,
with strict orders to allow not a drop to be drawn or served to any
one without the sanction of Sergeant Feeny or his superior officer,
the major. Even the humiliation of this proceeding had in no wise
disturbed Moreno's suavity. "All I possess is at your feet," he had
said to the major, with Castilian grace and gravity; "take or withhold
it as you will."

"Infernal old hypocrite!" swore Feeny, between his strong, set teeth.
"I believe he'd like nothing better than to get the escort drunk and
turn us over bag and baggage to the Morales gang."

Thrice during the hot afternoon had Feeny scouted the premises and
striven to find what number and manner of men Moreno might have in
concealment there. Questioning was of little use. Moreno was ready to
answer to anything, and was never known to halt at a lie. Old Miguel,
the half-breed, who did odd jobs about the well and the corral,
expressed profound ignorance both of the situation and Feeny's
English. The Mexican boy had but one answer to all queries: "No
sa-a-abe." Other occupants there were, but these even Feeny's sense of
duty could not prompt him to disturb. Somewhere in the depths of the
domestic portion of the ranch, where the brush on the flat roof was
piled most heavily and the walls were jealously thick, all
scouting-parties or escorts well knew that Moreno's wife and daughter
were hidden from prying eyes, and rumor had it that often there were
more than two feminine occupants; that these were sometimes joined by
three or four others,--wives or sweethearts of outlawed men who rode
with Pasqual Morales, and all Arizona knew that Pasqual Morales had