without running these risks?" said Dick.

"I fear it's too late now. I should have done that last night.
You see, we're over the line--"

"Are we in Mexican territory now?" queried Gale, sharply.

"I guess yes, old boy. That's what complicates it. Rojas and his
rebels have Casita in their hands. But Rojas without his rebels
would be able to stop me, get the girl, and make for his mountain
haunts. If Mercedes is really watched--if her identity is known,
which I am sure is the case--we couldn't get far from this house
before I'd be knifed and she seized."

"Good Heavens! Thorne, can that sort of thing happen less than a
stone's throw from the United States line?" asked Gale, incredulously.

"It can happen, and don't you forget it. You don't seem to realize
the power these guerrilla leaders, these rebel captains, and
particularly these bandits, exercise over the mass of Mexicans.
A bandit is a man of honor in Mexico. He is feared, envied, loved.
In the hearts of the people he stands next to the national idol--the
bull-fighter, the matador. The race has a wild, barbarian, bloody
strain. Take Quinteros, for instance. He was a peon, a slave.
He became a famous bandit. At the outbreak of the revolution he
proclaimed himself a leader, and with a band of followers he
devastated whole counties. The opposition to federal forces was only
a blind to rob and riot and carry off women. The motto of this man
and his followers was: 'Let us enjoy ourselves while we may!'