“There ain’t no such luck for me,” he said.  “She’s married to another gink now.”

They came at last to the hut, upon the shady side of which they found a Mexican squatting puffing upon a cigarette, while upon the doorstep sat a woman, evidently his wife, busily engaged in the preparation of some manner of foodstuff contained in a large, shallow vessel.  About them played a couple of half-naked children.  A baby sprawled upon a blanket just within the doorway.

The man looked up, suspiciously, as the two approached.  Bridge saluted him in fairly understandable Spanish, asking for food, and telling the man that they had money with which to pay for a little—­not much, just a little.

The Mexican slowly unfolded himself and arose, motioning the strangers to follow him into the interior of the hut.  The woman, at a word from her lord and master, followed them, and at his further dictation brought them frijoles and tortillas.

The price he asked was nominal; but his eyes never left Bridge’s hands as the latter brought forth the money and handed it over.  He appeared just a trifle disappointed when no more money than the stipulated purchase price was revealed to sight.

“Where you going?” he asked.

“We’re looking for work,” explained Bridge.  “We want to get jobs on one of the American ranches or mines.”

“You better go back,” warned the Mexican.  “I, myself, have nothing against the Americans, senor; but there are many of my countrymen who do not like you.  The Americans are all leaving.  Some already have been killed by bandits.  It is not safe to go farther.  Pesita’s men are all about here.  Even Mexicans are not safe from him.  No one knows whether he is for Villa or Carranza.  If he finds a Villa ranchero, then Pesita cries Viva Carranza! and his men kill and rob.  If, on the other hand, a neighbor of the last victim hears of it in time, and later Pesita comes to him, he assures Pesita that he is for Carranza, whereupon Pesita cries Viva Villa! and falls upon the poor unfortunate, who is lucky if he escapes with his life.  But Americans!  Ah, Pesita asks them no questions.  He hates them all, and kills them all, whenever he can lay his hands upon them.  He has sworn to rid Mexico of the gringos.”

“Wot’s the Dago talkin’ about?” asked Billy.

Bridge gave his companion a brief synopsis of the Mexican’s conversation.

“Only the gentleman is not an Italian, Billy,” he concluded.  “He’s a Mexican.”

“Who said he was an Eyetalian?” demanded Byrne.

As the two Americans and the Mexican conversed within the hut there approached across the dusty flat, from the direction of the nearer hills, a party of five horsemen.

They rode rapidly, coming toward the hut from the side which had neither door nor window, so that those within had no warning of their coming.  They were swarthy, ragged ruffians, fully armed, and with an equipment which suggested that they might be a part of a quasi-military organization.