“I’ll make a row in that saloon,” returned Dick, bluntly.  “I’ll start something.  I’ll rush Rojas and his crowd.  I’ll—­”

“Lord, no; you mustn’t, Dick—­you’ll be knifed!” cried Thorne.  He was in distress, yet his eyes were shining.

“I’ll take a chance.  Maybe I can surprise that slow Greaser bunch and get away before they know what’s happened....You be ready watching at the window.  When the row starts those fellows out there in the plaza will run into the saloon.  Then you slip out, go straight through the plaza down the street.  It’s a dark street, I remember.  I’ll catch up with you before you get far.”

Thorne gasped, but did not say a word.  Mercedes leaned against him, her white hands now at her breast, her great eyes watching Gale as he went out.

In the corridor Gale stopped long enough to pull on a pair of heavy gloves, to muss his hair, and disarrange his collar.  Then he stepped into the restaurant, went through, and halted in the door leading into the saloon.  His five feet eleven inches and one hundred and eighty pounds were more noticeable there, and it was part of his plan to attract attention to himself.  No one, however, appeared to notice him.  The pool-players were noisily intent on their game, the same crowd of motley-robed Mexicans hung over the reeking bar.  Gale’s roving glance soon fixed upon the man he took to be Rojas.  He recognized the huge, high-peaked, black sombrero with its ornamented band.  The Mexican’s face was turned aside.  He was in earnest, excited colloquy with a dozen or more comrades, most of whom were sitting round a table.  They were listening, talking, drinking.  The fact that they wore cartridge belts crossed over their breasts satisfied that these were the rebels.  He had noted the belts of the Mexicans outside, who were apparently guards.  A waiter brought more drinks to this group at the table, and this caused the leader to turn so Gale could see his face.  It was indeed the sinister, sneering face of the bandit Rojas.  Gale gazed at the man with curiosity.  He was under medium height, and striking in appearance only because of his dandified dress and evil visage.  He wore a lace scarf, a tight, bright-buttoned jacket, a buckskin vest embroidered in red, a sash and belt joined by an enormous silver clasp.  Gale saw again the pearl-handled gun swinging at the bandit’s hip.  Jewels flashed in his scarf.  There were gold rings in his ears and diamonds on his fingers.

Gale became conscious of an inward fire that threatened to overrun his coolness.  Other emotions harried his self-control.  It seemed as if sight of the man liberated or created a devil in Gale.  And at the bottom of his feelings there seemed to be a wonder at himself, a strange satisfaction for the something that had come to him.

He stepped out of the doorway, down the couple of steps to the floor of the saloon, and he staggered a little, simulating drunkenness.  He fell over the pool tables, jostled Mexicans at the bar, laughed like a maudlin fool, and, with his hat slouched down, crowded here and there.  Presently his eye caught sight of the group of cowboys whom he had before noticed with such interest.