Bryant returned to the hotel, well satisfied with the progress he had made.  In the lobby of the hotel he ran across Charlie Menocal, who gave him a venomous look and passed into the bar without speaking.  What the young fellow might feel or think gave Lee no concern, though he might have taken warning from that hostile regard.  For it was by Charlie’s instructions that a short, stout, swart Mexican went from a native saloon to the depot that evening, where he presently identified Bryant and lounged nearer the spot.  Dave at length noticed him and called Lee’s attention to the fellow, whose face had a particularly sinister cast and whose eyes were fixed upon the engineer in a stony, unblinking stare.  That look gave one the sensation of being gazed at by something poisonous in a clump of sagebrush.  But the feeling was forgotten when the train came in on which they were departing and Bryant and Dave mounted the steps of a coach.

The Mexican, on his part, returned to the saloon, where eventually he was joined by Charlie Menocal.  Charlie’s face was flushed and his breath alcoholic; he was a little drunk.  At a corner table they conferred, drinking whisky.

“You will know him now, the snake!” Charlie asked.

“I would know him in the dark, senor,” was the reply.

They spoke in Spanish, since young Menocal’s companion knew no other tongue.  The latter was a newcomer to Kennard, of the name of Alvarez.  He had come up from across the line, where he had been first with Carranza, and then with Zapata in his black troop, and then with Pancho Villa.  He already had considerable reputation in the low Mexican quarter of the town:  he had participated in many fights and raids “down there”; he was fearless; he could use a gun; he had many killings to his credit.  When earlier in the day Charlie had made private inquiry of the saloon-keeper, an old friend, concerning a man of nerve that he could engage who would ask no questions, Alvarez was pointed out to him.

Presently an agreement was reached between them and Charlie produced his check-book and a fountain-pen.

“Here’s a check for one hundred dollars,” he said, writing.  “Come to Bartolo, get you some blankets and food, and camp somewhere near.  From time to time we’ll meet and I’ll tell you what’s to be done.  There’s a saloon at Bartolo, if you get thirsty.  Another hundred dollars will be yours when the job is finished, perhaps more.  Meantime, you will act before others as if you did not know me.  Here’s the check.”

Alvarez rose and walked to the bar.

“Is this money; a hundred dollars?” he inquired of the Mexican proprietor of the saloon.

“One hundred dollars, yes,” said the latter, with an assuring smile.  “Made payable to you, Alvarez.  Good?  Good at any bank, good here at my saloon, good as gold.  Better than gold, Alvarez, because easier to carry.  Do you wish the money for it?”

The Mexican ex-bandit jingled some dollars in his trousers’ pockets.