“I’ve put it through all right.  I got them to sign with the understanding that they don’t turn a hand till you bring the money.  You can take—­”

That was all, for even on that still night the florid gentleman’s voice receded quickly to an unintelligible mumbling.  They went inside, and the door closed.  Johnny and the Thunder Bird were once more shut out from their conference.

Johnny spied a Mexican who was leaning against the wall of a smaller building, smoking and staring pensively across the moonlighted plain toward that portion of the United States where the Potreros hunched themselves up against the stars.

“Bring me some gas, you!” he called peremptorily.

The Mexican pulled his gaze away from the vista that had held him hypnotized and straightened his lank form reluctantly.  From a bench near by he picked up a square kerosene can of the type made internationally popular by a certain oil trust, inspected it to see if the baling-wire handle would hold the weight of four gallons of gasoline, and sauntered to a shed under which a red-leaded iron drum lay on a low scaffold of poles.  A brass faucet was screwed into the hole for a faucet.  He turned it listlessly, watched the gasoline run in a sparkling stream the size of his finger, went off into a moon-dream until the oil can was threatening to run over, and then shut off the stream at its source.  He picked up the can with the air of one whose mind is far distant, came like a sleepwalker to where Johnny waited, set the can down, and turned apathetically to retrace his steps to where he could lean again.

“That ain’t all.  Bring me a can of water as fast as you brought the gas.  We may want to go back to-night.”

“Si,” sighed the Mexican and continued to drift away.

“Don’t be in a hurry.  Come and lift the can up to me.”

The Mexican returned as slowly as he had departed, and picked up the can.  Johnny dropped a half dollar into it, whereat the Mexican’s eyes opened a trifle wider.

“What’s the name of that red-faced friend of Cliff’s?” Johnny asked, taking the can and beginning to pour gas into the Thunder Bird’s tank.

“Quien sabe?” murmured the listless one.

Johnny paused, and another coin slipped tinkling into the can.

“What did you say?”

The Mexican hesitated.  He would like very much to see that other coin.  It had sounded heavy—­almost as heavy as a dollar.  He turned his head and looked attentively at the house.

“Quien sabe, senor.”  The senor he added for sake of the coin he had not seen.  “Mucho name, Ah’m theenk.”

“Think some more.”  Johnny poured the last of the gas and caused another clinking sound in the can.  The Mexican’s eyes were as wide open now as they would ever be, and he even called a faint smile to his countenance.

“Some-times—­Sawb,” he recollected, and reached for the can.