“The risk is not much and the profits are large,” remarked Pedro, in Spanish.  “We must burn a candle for the repose of the soul of Carlos Martinez.  It is he that made our plans safe.  And a candle is not much when we—­”

“Hands up!” said a quiet voice, followed by grim commands.  The Mexicans jumped as if stung by a scorpion, and could just discern two of the rowdy gringo cow-punchers in the heavy shadows of the opposite wall, but the candle light glinted in rings on the muzzles of their six-shooters.  Had Manuel betrayed them?  But they had little time or inclination for cogitation regarding Manuel.

“Easy there!” shouted Red, and Pedro’s hand stopped when half way to his chest.  Pedro was a gambler by nature, but the odds were too heavy and he sullenly obeyed the command.

“Stick ’em up!  Stick ’em up!  Higher yet, an’ hold ’em there,” purred a soft voice from the other end of the room, where Dick Martin smiled pleasantly upon them and wondered if there was anything on earth harder to pound good common sense into than a “Greaser’s” head.  His gun was blue, but it was, nevertheless, the most prominent part of his make-up, even if the light was poor.

One of the Mexicans reached involuntarily for his gun, for he was a gun-man by training; while his companions felt for their knives, deadly weapons in a melee.  Martin, crying, “Watch ’em, Cassidy!” side-stepped and lunged forward with the speed and skill of a boxer, and his hard left hand landed on the point of Juan Alvarez’ jaw with a force and precision not to be withstood.  But to make more certain that the Mexican would not take part in any possible demonstration of resistance, Martin’s right circled up in a short half-hook and stopped against Juan’s short ribs.  Martin weighed one hundred and eighty pounds and packed no fat on his well-knit frame.

At this moment a two-legged cyclone burst upon the scene in the person of Johnny Nelson, whose rage had been worked up almost to the weeping point because he had lost so much time hunting for the crevice where it was not.  Seeing Juan fall, and the glint of knives, he started in to clean things up, yelling, “I’m a ghost!  I’m a ghost!  Take ’em alive!  Take ’em alive!”

Hopalong and Red felt that they were in his way, and taking care of one Mexican between them, while Martin knocked out another, they watched the exits,—­for anything was possible in such a chaotic mix-up,—­and gave Johnny plenty of room.  The latter paused, triumphant, looked around to see if he had missed any, and then advanced upon his friends and shoved his jaw up close to Hopalong’s face.  “Tried to lose me, didn’t you!  Wouldn’t wait for me!  For seven cents an’ a toothbrush I’d give you what’s left!”

Red grabbed him by trousers and collar and heaved him into the passageway.  “Go out an’ play with yore souveneer or we’ll step on you!”

Johnny sat up, rubbed certain portions of his anatomy, and grinned.  “Oh, I’ve got it, all right!  I’m shore going to take that ghost home an’ make some of them fools eat it!”