“Looks like it.”

“Arguilla’s men?”

“I reckon so.  And they’re up pretty clost to the line—­too clost to suit me.  We’ll ride round and do our talkin’ with Ortez.”

“Ain’t they friendly?” queried Pete.

“Friendly, hell!  Any one of ’em would knife you for the hoss you’re ridin’!  Hear ’em sing!  Most like they’re all drunk—­and you know what that means.  Just follow along slow; and whatever you run into don’t get off your hoss.”

“Ain’t them there coyotes friendly to Ortez?”

“S’ long as he feeds ’em.  But that don’t do us no good.  Ought to be some of the Ortez riders hangin’ round somewhere.  They don’t mix much with Arguilla’s men.”

“She’s a lovely lay-out,” said Pete.  “But I’m with you.”

Circling the ranch, Brevoort and Pete rode far out into the desert, until the camp-fire was hidden by the ranch-buildings.  Then they angled in cautiously, edging past the ’dobe outbuildings and the corrals toward the hacienda.  “Don’t see anybody around.  Guess they ‘re all out in front drinkin’ with the bunch,” whispered Brevoort.  Just as Pete was about to make a suggestion, a figure rose almost beneath the horse’s head, and a guttural Mexican voice told him to halt.  Pete complied, telling the Mexican that they were from the Olla, that they had a message for Ortez.

“No use arguin’,” said Brevoort—­and Pete caught Brevoort’s meaning as another man appeared.

“Ask him if Arguilla is here,” said Brevoort.  And Pete knew that these were Arguilla’s men, for none of the Ortez vaquero’s carried bolt-action rifles.

The sentry replied to Pete’s question by poking him in the ribs with the muzzle of his rifle, and telling his to get down muy pronto.

“Tell him our message is for Arguilla—­not Ortez,” suggested Brevoort.  “There’s something wrong here.  No use startin’ anything,” he added hastily, as he dismounted.  “Ortez is agent for Arguilla’s outfit.  If you get a chance, watch what they do with our horses.”

“We came to see El Comandante,” said Pete as the sentries marched them to the house.  “We’re his friends—­and you’ll be coyote-meat before mornin’ if you git too careless with that gun.”

The sentry grunted and poked Pete in the back with his rifle, informing him in that terse universal idiom that he could “tell it to El Comandante.”

From the outer darkness to the glare of the light in the ’dobe was a blinding transition.  Pete and Brevoort blinked at the three figures in the main room:  Arguilla, who sat at the long table, his heavy features glistening with sweat, his broad face flushed to a dull red, had his hand on a bottle of American whiskey, from which he had just filled his glass.  Near him sat the owner of the rancho, Ortez, a man much older, bearded and lean, with face lined and interlined by weather and age.  At the closed door stood a sentry.  From without came raucous laughter and the singing of the soldiers.  The sentry nearest Pete told Arguilla that the Gringoes had been caught sneaking in at the back of the hacienda.