“I am sorry, senor,” he said, “that you have been put to so much inconvenience.  My men could not know that you were not a gringo; but I can make it all right.  I will make it all right.  You are a big man.  The gringos have chased you from their country as they chased me.  I hate them.  You hate them.  But enough of them.  You have no business in Mexico except to seek work.  I give you work.  You are big.  You are strong.  You are like a bull.  You stay with me, senor, and I make you captain.  I need men what can talk some English and look like gringo.  You do fine.  We make much money—­you and I. We make it all time while we fight to liberate my poor Mexico.  When Mexico liberate we fight some more to liberate her again.  The Germans they give me much money to liberate Mexico, and—­there are other ways of getting much money when one is riding around through rich country with soldiers liberating his poor, bleeding country.  Sabe?”

“Yep, I guess I savvy,” said Billy, “an’ it listens all right to me’s far’s you’ve gone.  My pal in on it?”

“Eh?”

“You make my frien’ a captain, too?”

Pesita held up his hands and rolled his eyes in holy horror.  Take a gringo into his band?  It was unthinkable.

“He shot,” he cried.  “I swear to kill all gringo.  I become savior of my country.  I rid her of all Americanos.”

“Nix on the captain stuff fer me, then,” said Billy, firmly.  “That guy’s a right one.  If any big stiff thinks he can croak little ol’ Bridge while Billy Byrne’s aroun’ he’s got anudder t’ink comin’.  Why, me an’ him’s just like brudders.”

“You like this gringo?” asked Pesita.

“You bet,” cried Billy.

Pesita thought for several minutes.  In his mind was a scheme which required the help of just such an individual as this stranger—­someone who was utterly unknown in the surrounding country and whose presence in a town could not by any stretch of the imagination be connected in any way with the bandit, Pesita.

“I tell you,” he said.  “I let your friend go.  I send him under safe escort to El Orobo Rancho.  Maybe he help us there after a while.  If you stay I let him go.  Otherwise I shoot you both with Miguel.”

“Wot you got it in for Mig fer?” asked Billy.  “He’s a harmless sort o’ guy.”

“He Villista.  Villista with gringos run Mexico—­gringos and the church.  Just like Huerta would have done it if they’d given him a chance, only Huerta more for church than for gringos.”

“Aw, let the poor boob go,” urged Billy, “an’ I’ll come along wit you.  Why he’s got a wife an’ kids—­you wouldn’t want to leave them without no one to look after them in this God-forsaken country!”

Pesita grinned indulgently.

“Very well, Senor Captain,” he said, bowing low.  “I let Miguel and your honorable friend go.  I send safe escort with them.”

“Bully fer you, ol’ pot!” exclaimed Billy, and Pesita smiled delightedly in the belief that some complimentary title had been applied to him in the language of “Granavenoo.”  “I’ll go an’ tell ’em,” said Billy.