The chief, who rode in advance with the pack-horse, led the way at a break-neck pace, and the boys, being one behind the other, each in company with the Ranchero who had him in charge, were allowed no opportunity to converse with one another, even had they desired it.  Frank, for want of something better to do, began to make an examination of the members of the band.  Like their leader, they were full-blooded Mexicans, with enormous mustaches, and long, tangled hair, which looked as though it had never seen a comb.  They were dressed in gay-colored clothes—­blue jackets, buckskin pants, very wide at the knee, and covered with buttons, ribbons, and gold lace.  They wore long sashes around their waists, which were thrust full of bowie-knives and revolvers.  They carried short, heavy rifles, slung over their shoulders by leather bands, and behind their saddles were their ponchos, which did duty both as overcoats and beds.  Taken altogether, they were a hard-looking set, and seemed capable of any atrocity.  The man who had charge of Frank was particularly noticeable in this respect, and our hero thought that all he needed were the leggins, and high-pointed hat, to make him a first-class brigand.  This man kept a sharp eye upon his prisoner, and scowled at him, as if he regarded him as his most implacable foe.

“You needn’t look so mad,” said Frank, at length.  “I don’t remember that I ever did you any harm, and I certainly am not foolish enough to try to escape, as long as you keep hold of my bridle.”

“You had better not,” said the Ranchero, smiling grimly, and shaking his head in a very threatening manner.

“I don’t know that you can frighten me,” returned Frank, coolly.  “I wish I was a man for about five minutes.”

“What would you do?” asked the Ranchero, who seemed to be pleased, as well as astonished, at the boy’s courage and independence.

“I’d make your head and your heels change places in a great hurry.  In other words, I’d knock you out of your saddle.  Then I’d say:  ’Good-by, Mr.—­Mr.’—­what’s your name?”

“Mercedes—­Antoine Mercedes.”

“Well, Mr. Mercedes, I’ll never forget that benevolent-looking face of yours.  As I was saying, I would bid you good-by, and leave.  I’d pass those fellows,” he added, jerking his thumb over his shoulder toward the robbers in the rear, “before they could say ‘General Jackson’ with their mouth’s open.  You haven’t got a horse, in this party, that can catch Roderick.”

The Ranchero smiled again, and tapped the butt of one of his revolvers with his finger.

“Oh, you wouldn’t have a chance to fire a pistol at me,” said Frank, quickly.  “By the time you could get on your feet again, after I had knocked you down, I would be a mile from here.  Did Pierre ever tell you how nicely I fooled him?” he continued, noticing that the chief was turned half around in his saddle, listening to what he had to say.  “Well I am not surprised that he never mentioned it, for he ought to feel ashamed of himself.”