“She doesn’t like me,” Valencia told her cousin as soon as they had left.  “I wonder why.  We were good enough friends as children.”

Manuel said nothing.  He stroked his little black mustache with the foreign manner he had inherited.  If he had cared to do so perhaps he could have explained Kate Underwood’s stiffness.  Partly it was embarrassment and partly shyness.  He knew that there had been a time—­before Valencia’s return from college—­when Kate lacked very little of being in love with him.  He had but to say the word to have become engaged—­and he had not said it.  For, while on a visit to the East, he had called upon his beautiful cousin and she had won his love at once.  This had nipped in the bud any embryonic romance that might otherwise have been possible with Kate.

A little old Mexican woman with a face like wrinkled leather was waiting to see them in front of the hotel.

“Senor Pesquiera?” she asked, with a little bob of the body meant to be a bow.

“Yes.”

“And Senorita Valdes?”

“That is my name,” answered Valencia.

“Will the senor and the senorita take a walk?  The night is fine.”

“Where?” demanded Manuel curtly.

“Into old-town, senor.”

“You have something to tell us.”

“To show you, senor—­for a hundred dollars.”

“Sebastian—­or is it Pablo?” cried Valencia, in a low voice.

“I say nothing, senorita” whined the old woman.  “I show you; then you pay.  Is it not so?”

“Get the money, Manuel,” his cousin ordered quietly.

Manuel got it from the hotel safe.  He took time also to get from his room a revolver.  Gordon had fallen victim to an ambush and he did not intend to do so if he could help it.  In his own mind he had no doubt that some of their countrymen were selling either Pablo or Sebastian for the reward, but it was better to be safe than to be sorry.

The old crone led them by side streets into the narrow adobe-lined roads of old-town.  They passed through winding alleys and between buildings crumbling with age.  Always Manuel watched, his right hand in his coat pocket.  At the entrance to a little court a man emerged from the shadow of a wall.  He whispered with the old dame for a minute.

“Come.  Make an end of this and show us what you have to show, muy pronto,” interrupted Manuel impatiently.

“In good time, senor,” the man apologized.

“Just a word first, my friend.  I have a revolver in my hand.  If there is trickery in your mind, better give it up.  I’m a dead shot, and I’ll put the first bullet through your heart.  Now lead on.”

The Mexican threw up his hands in protest to all the saints that his purpose was good.  He would assuredly keep faith, senor.

“See you do,” replied the Spaniard curtly.

Their guide rapped three times on a door of a tumble-down shack.  Cautiously it was opened a few inches.  There was another whispered conversation.