The group was shocked into silence, quickly followed by great unrest and
hot, muttered words. Martin did not move a muscle, the smile was set,
but between the half-closed eyelids crouched Combat, on its toes. The
Mexicans knew it was there without looking for it--the tone of his
voice, the caressing purr of his words, and his unnatural languor were
signs well known to them. Not a criminal sneaking back from voluntary
banishment in Mexico who had seen those signs ever forgot them, if he
lived. Martin watched the group cat-like, keenly scrutinizing each face,
reading the changing emotions in every shifting expression; he had this
art down so well that he could tell when a man was debating the pull of
a gun, and beat him on the draw by a fraction of a second.

"De senor ees meestak," came the reply, as quiet and caressing as the
words which provoked it. The strange Mexican was standing proudly and
looking into the squinting eyes with only a grayness of face and a
tigerish litheness to tell what he felt.

"None go through the canyon after dark on Fridays," purred Martin.

"_I_ go tro' de canyon nex' Friday night. Eef I do, then you mak apology
to me?"

"I'll limit my remark to all but one Greaser."

The Mexican stepped forward. "I tak' thees gloove an' leave eet at
de Beeg Ben', for you to fin' in daylight," he said, tapping one of
Martin's gauntlets which lay on the bar. "You geev' me eet befo' I go?"

"Yes; at nine o'clock to-morrow night," Martin replied, hiding his