There’s been fighting for three days.  The rebels have a string of flat railroad cars, all iron, and they ran this up within range of the barricades.  They’ve got some machine guns, and they’re going to lick the federals sure.  There are dead soldiers in the ditches, Mexican non-combatants lying dead in the streets—­and buzzards everywhere!  It’s reported that Campo, the rebel leader, is on the way up from Sinaloa, and Huerta, a federal general, is coming to relieve the garrison.  I don’t take much stock in reports.  But there’s hell in Casita, all right.”

“Do you think we’ll have trouble out here?” asked Dick, excitedly.

“Sure.  Some kind of trouble sooner or later,” replied Belding, gloomily.  “Why, you can stand on my ranch and step over into Mexico.  Laddy says we’ll lose horses and other stock in night raids.  Jim Lash doesn’t look for any worse.  But Jim isn’t as well acquainted with Greasers as I am.  Anyway, my boy, as soon as you can hold a bridle and a gun you’ll be on the job, don’t mistake me.”

“With Laddy and Jim?” asked Dick, trying to be cool.

“Sure.  With them and me, and by yourself.”

Dick drew a deep breath, and even after Belding had departed he forgot for a moment about the letter in his hand.  Then he unfolded the paper and read: 

Dear Dick,—­You’ve more than saved my life.  To the end of my days you’ll be the one man to whom I owe everything.  Words fail to express my feelings.

This must be a brief note.  Belding is waiting, and I used up most of the time writing to Mercedes.  I like Belding.  He was not unknown to me, though I never met or saw him before.  You’ll be interested to learn that he’s the unadulterated article, the real Western goods.  I’ve heard of some of his stunts, and they made my hair curl.  Dick, your luck is staggering.  The way Belding spoke of you was great.  But you deserve it, old man.

I’m leaving Mercedes in your charge, subject, of course, to advice from Belding.  Take care of her, Dick, for my life is wrapped up in her.  By all means keep her from being seen by Mexicans.  We are sitting tight here—­nothing doing.  If some action doesn’t come soon, it’ll be darned strange.  Things are centering this way.  There’s scrapping right along, and people have begun to move.  We’re still patrolling the line eastward of Casita.  It’ll be impossible to keep any tab on the line west of Casita, for it’s too rough.  That cactus desert is awful.  Cowboys or rangers with desert-bred horses might keep raiders and smugglers from crossing.  But if cavalrymen could stand that waterless wilderness, which I doubt much, their horses would drop under them.

If things do quiet down before my commission expires, I’ll get leave of absence, run out to Forlorn River, marry my beautiful Spanish princess, and take her to a civilized country, where, I opine, every son of a gun who sees her will lose his head, and drive me mad.  It’s my great luck, old pal, that you are a fellow who never seemed to care about pretty girls.  So you won’t give me the double cross and run off with Mercedes—­carry her off, like the villain in the play, I mean.