“Who,” demanded Maximilian, “has had the presumption to introduce a spy on these grounds?”

Éloin glanced quickly at the Empress. “A spy, sire?” he said uneasily.

“I mean that American, sir. But shall I ask the sentinels at the gate?”

“That, Ferdinand,” Charlotte interposed icily, “is not necessary. Monsieur Éloin, at my command, brought the American here. You should know why.”

“To save my play-empire, I suppose?”

“An empire,” she cried, catching up the word the more hotly because she knew it to be Jacqueline’s own gage of battle, “an empire, August Sire, to be gained by fighting, as your forefathers, as mine, won theirs. And that is nobler, I suppose, than puny inheritance. I do not know what the Hapsburg may be fallen to, but a daughter of Orleans still has the right to expect a crown from her husband. If not, she is unworthily mated.”

Maximilian thought of that other empire, which that other temptress exacted of him. It seemed that he had many realms to conquer. But the grimmest humor of all was that he blithely imagined himself capable of satisfying the whims, not of one woman, but of two. Deluded Prince Max!

But the Emperor was not there to discuss empire building, much less to face the tigerish light in his lady’s eyes.

“Your Majesty desires––”

“That you leave the country at once, Monsieur Éloin.”

“But,” protested Charlotte, “that is open disgrace. At least cover it with the pretext of some mission.”

The downcast courtier took heart. Watching his master with narrowed sycophant eyes, he said, “But it need not be a pretext, sire. Since I must leave Your Highness, permit me, then, to find my mission, and one in which I can still serve my sovereign, though in spite of himself.”

Imperceptibly Maximilian fell under the spell of the old fawning.

“And what mission could that be, my good friend?”

“To feel the Austrian pulse, sire. To know when the time is ripe, to hasten the time––”

“The time for what?”

“For Your Majesty’s return. Even now the unpopularity of His Imperial Highness, Franz––”

“Éloin!” Maximilian stopped him sharply. But he could not hide the flash of his own blue eyes.

“What would Your Majesty? In Vienna, in Budapest, in your own Venetia, sire, they long for you; at least as regent till the crown prince shall come of age. Would you rebuke them also, as you do me?”

Charlotte stared at the Belgian in amazement and distrust. He had only just warned her how Jacqueline had kindled Maximilian’s Austrian hopes in order to get him out of Mexico, and here he was borrowing that woman’s guile. And here was Maximilian, too, softening under the enervating blandishment, softening behind his frowns for the officious meddler.

Éloin protested that he understood.

“None,” repeated the Emperor, “except to win back my confidence. When you have taken leave of Her Majesty, you may come to my cabinet to bid me farewell.”

As Maximilian left them, Charlotte turned on the favorite. “Indeed, Monsieur Éloin?” she said in utter scorn.

“But, Your Majesty––”

“Is Napoleon, then, so liberal a paymaster?”

“Your Majesty!” and in genuine distress the courtier hurried on. “If you would listen, Madame! ’Tis true that Jeanne d’Aumerle has found the surest lever to pry His Highness out of Mexico––”

“So good a lever, that you would use it too, to topple over my throne.”

“Not so, Madame. It’s a cunning lever, yes; but I shall use another fulcrum.”

“Really, monsieur, if I were in the mood for riddles and such pretty trifles, I’d ask you to favor Us with a chansonnette.”

“But this is as plain as day. First, our little intrigante knows that if His Majesty tries for the Austrian throne, he must leave Mexico. That is her lever to move him. But suppose we shift it to my fulcrum. Then, whatever encourages his hopes for Austria, will make him but the more determined to cling to Mexico. For to succeed in Austria, he must triumph first in Mexico. He must prove to Europe that he can reign brilliantly. But if he abandons Mexico, as Jacqueline would persuade him, what of his prestige then? What of his glory to dazzle the Austrians? If Your Majesty would suggest to him this phase––”

“And you, meanwhile in Europe?”

“Oh, I shall find his chances good over there, but conditional on his success here.”

“Who may not be in accord with our views, Your Majesty would say? But if you will permit, Madame, I believe I know quite a different man. Moreover, he has already made an impression on His Highness, during our brief stay at an hacienda in the Huasteca. Now he is here. I brought him to commend as a future loyal follower.”

“Pray, who is the paragon?”

“A priest, Madame, a German priest, who perhaps would not refuse the Bishopric of Durango. The hope of that rich see would insure his devotion. His name is Fischer. He is a clerical, he is an imperialist, he is resourceful. Our Jacqueline will have much to do to outwit him. This corpulent padre, Madame, would wheedle the sulky pope himself into a good humor with us. If I might venture so far as to present him before––”

“Oh, I suppose so,” said Charlotte wearily.

PART SECOND
THE ROSE THAT WAS A THORN
IN THE LAND OF ROSES

At the hotel in the City of Mexico where Driscoll stopped, the entrance was big enough for a stage coach to drive through. But as to height, it did not seem any too great for the attenuation of Mr. Daniel Boone, who therein had propped himself at his ease, delightfully suggesting a tropical gentleman lounging on a veranda under the live oaks. One shoulder was impinged on the casing of the archway, from which contact his spare frame drifted out and downward, to the supporting base of one boot sole. The other boot crossed it over, and the edge of the toe rested on the pavement of the Calle de los Plateros, familiarly so-called.

Mr. Boone hailed from Boonville, but in Missouri, with Kentucky for ancestral State, such was not a strained coincidence by any means. An individual there of the name of Boone, and a bit of geography likewise distinguished, are bound to fall together occasionally. For instance, a flea’s hop over the map, and Mr. Boone and Boonville both might have claimed the county of Boone. Under the circumstances, Daniel’s Christian name was the most obviously Christian thing his parents could do, and followed (to precede thereafter) as a matter of course.

“There’s been rumors hitherto about the pen and the sword,” he mused, “but type, now–that’s hot!” Wherewith he emptied his cases into a sack, took down a squirrel rifle, chased off his devil, locked in the Gutenberg, and joined the raiders. Flinging his burden of metal at General Shelby’s feet, he said, “There sir, is The Javelin in embryo for months to come. Now it’s pi, which we’ll sho’ly feed out by the bullet weight, sir.”

From then on the newspaper man followed his proclivities and turned scout, and it was a vigilant foe that could scoop him on the least of their movements, whether in the field or in their very stronghold, St. Louis itself.

At the present moment Mr. Boone was retrieving a lost familiarity with good cigars. There was a black one of the Valle Nacional in his mouth, and also in his mouth there was a wisp of straw. The steel-blue smoke floated out lazily, which his steel-blue eyes regarded with appreciation. It was an Elysium of indolence. The cigar, the not having to kill anybody for a few minutes, and a place to lean against, these were content. Troubadour phrases droned soothingly in his brain. Of course he had to apostrophize the snow-clads:

The wisp of straw hardly tallied with poesy of soul, nor did the lank figure and lean face, nor the cavalry uniform, badly worn, though lately new, nor yet the sagging belt with dragoon pistols. But the eyes did. Those eyes held the eloquence of the youth of a race. They were gentle, or they flashed, according to what passed within. It did not matter necessarily what might be going on without. They would as likely dart sparks during prayer meeting, or soften as a lover’s mid the charge on a battery. Shaggy moustached Daniel, not yet thirty, was a scholar too, of the true old school, where dead languages lived to consort familiarly with men, and neither had to be buried out of the world because of the comradeship. Once, in Pompeii, Daniel blundered suddenly on that mosaic doormat which bears the warning, “Cave canem”; and before he thought, he glanced anxiously around, half expecting a dog that could have barked at Saint Peter himself. From which it appears that the editor had traveled, and it would not be long in also appearing that he had gathered enough of polite and variegated learning to fill a warehouse, in which junk-shop he was constantly rummaging, and bringing forth queer specimens of speech wherewith to flower his inspirations.

Finally the keen, lazy eyes singled out an immense yellow horse and rider from among the luxurious turnouts. “Jack!” he exclaimed gladly. “The Storm Centre,” he improvised, as the new comer approached, “straight as Tecumseh, a great bronzed Ajax, mighty thewed, as strong of hand as of digestion–w’y, bless my soul, the boy looks pow’ful dejected, knocked plum’ galley-west! I never saw him look like that before.”

Man and horse had come all night from Cuernavaca. But Din Driscoll never tired, wherefore Boone knew that something was the matter. At the doorway Driscoll flung himself from the saddle, gave the bridle to a porter of the hotel, and was following, his face the picture of gloom, when he heard the words, “How’ yuh, Jack?” His brow cleared in the instant. “Shanks!” he cried, gripping the other’s hand.

Mr. Boone untwined his boots and for the first time during a half-hour stood in them. As he shook Driscoll’s hand, he shook his own head, and at last observed, in the way of continuing a conversation, “It was the almightiest soaking rain, Din, for the land’s sake!” And he shook his head again, quite mournfully.

Driscoll had not seen Mr. Boone since leaving Shelby’s camp back in Arkansas. He naturally wished to know what was being talked about. But his woeful friend only kept on, “It wet all Texas, heavier’n a sponge, and,” he added, “they ain’t coming.”

“Shanks! You don’t mean––”

“But the rain? What in––”

“What did you come down here for, I’d like to know? To say how the Trans-Mississippi wouldn’t surrender, didn’t you? Well?”

“Oh, go on!”

“Well, it rained, I tell you. Didn’t it rain before Waterloo? Didn’t it now?”

Mr. Boone believed in trouble as an antidote for trouble. When he had stirred Driscoll out of his dejection enough to make him want to fight, he deigned to clear the atmosphere of that befogging downpour in Texas.

“You rec’lect, Din, that there war god we put up in Kirby Smith’s place, who so dashingly would lead us on to Mexico?”

“Buckner, yes.”

“Him, Simon Bolivar B., whose gold lace glittered as though washed by the dew and wiped with the sunshine––”

“Now, Shanks, drop it!” Driscoll was referring to the editorial pen which Mr. Boone would clutch and get firmly in hand with the least rise of emotion. Against his other conversation, the clutching always became at once apparent.

“Anyhow,” said Daniel meekly, “he wilted, did our Simon of B. B. calibre, and he gave back the command to Smith. And Smith’s first order, his very first order, sir, was that the Department, the whole fifty thousand, should march into Shrevepoht and–and surrender, by thunder!”

“Dan, you’re not going to tell me––”

Driscoll’s face went blank. He thought of the scant welcome his homeless comrades would get. But Mr. Boone did not notice. He had only stretched his canvas, a big one, and there was a picture to paint. His long body began to straighten out, and his eyes glowed. From Xenophon to Irving’s Astoria, from Hannibal crossing the Alps to Marching Through Georgia, he ransacked both romance and the classics for adequate tints, but in vain. The colors would have to be of his own mixing.

In all this Daniel might have said “We,” but reportorial modesty forbade.

“And,” he went on, gaining momentum, “I don’t reckon you’ll be forgetting Arkansas, and the ague and rattlesnakes? And how the small-pox swooped down on that camp of cane shacks? And how the quinine gave out, and–and the tobacco? Lawd!–And how those boys forgot how to sew patches, their rags being so far gone! And how they made bridles out of bark, and coffee out of corn! And how they kneaded dough in old rubber blankets and cooked it on rocks! Well, Jack, there they were, in Arkansas like that, and the War was over at last, and Missouri was just a waiting for ’em. And then, to think that they had to face square around another way entirely! Din, you’ll just try to imagine that there devil breed facing any other way except to’ds home!”

“Don’t, Shanks, you––”

“Devils? They were the wildest things that are. It’s a mighty good thing they didn’t go back. Think of their neighbors across the Kansas line, getting ready for ’em with every sort of legal persecution under the sun, and carpet-bag judges to help! Outlaw decrees? Well, I reckon those decrees will make a few outlaws, all right, and there’ll be unsurrendered Johnny Rebs ten years from now. Shelby’s boys had the look of it. Your own Jackson county regiment would have flared into desperadoes at sight of a United States marshal. They were all in just that sort o’ mood, as they turned their backs on Missouri. And after four years, too! But there, it’s a stiff wind that has no turning, so cheer up! They did, as soon as that deluge got done with and they were headed for Mexico, one thousand of ’em. Soldiers mus’n’t repine, you know. For them, Fate arrays herself in April’s capricious sunshine.”

“I ain’t, but if now ‘I hold my tongue I shall give up the ghost,’ and I want to tell you first that Texas is a handsome state. We–they–were considerable interested all the way through it.”

“But, Meagre Shanks, where’d you leave ’em?”

“Back in Monterey, drinking champagne with Fat Jenny. Alas, ‘who can stay the bottles of heaven?’”

“Fat–who’s she?”

“Now you wait. They’ve got heaps to do in Texas yet, before they get to Fat Jenny. First, they helped themselves out of their own commissary departments, horses, provisions trains, cannon, everything. Decently uniformed for the first time, and the War over! You should of seen ’em, a forest of Sharpe’s carbines, a regular circulating library of Beecher Bibles. There were four Colts and a dragoon sabre and thousands of rounds of ammunition to each man. They had fighting tools to spare, and they cached a lot of the stuff up in the state of Coahuila. And they fed, and got sleek. This ain’t editorial, my boy. It’s God’s own truth. Adventures every step of the way only did ’em good. They saved whole towns from renegade looters by just mentioning Shelby’s name. They fought all day and danced all night. San Antone was the best. There they gathered in generals, governors, senators, and even Kirby Smith, all yearning to join Old Joe–our Old Joe, who ain’t thirty-four yet.”

The speaker paused, and when he began again, there was a light ominous of inspiration in his eyes.

“Lay it down, Shanks, lay it down,” Driscoll pleaded. He was referring again to the pen in hand.

“All right, Din,” Boone answered hastily. “Yes, I know, we all got kind of weepy too. No wonder Colonel Slayback wrote some verses. Reckon you can stand just one? This one?

“And,” he added savagely, “just let any parlor critic smile at the sacred feet of those same lines!”

“Let him once!” said Driscoll. His eyes were moist.

Henceforth they fought the forlorn damsel herself, fought every foot of the way through desert mesquite thick enough to daunt a tarantula. There were guerrillas, robbers, spies, deserters, and Indian tribes. It was one eternal ambush, incessantly a skirmish, often a pitched battle. They saved a French garrison. They rescued a real maiden by a night attack on an hacienda stronghold, and did it with strictly de rigueur dash and chivalry. Once or twice they were even stung, by some “langourous dusky-eyed scorpion of a saynorita” to fight among themselves, cavalryman’s code. Daniel was never one to spoil a romance by mentioning that a tropical maid was faced like a waffle-iron, though more than likely she was. Finally, as a last stroke, Fat Jenny promised to shoot Shelby and hang the rest.

“You’ve been derogatory about this lady before,” Driscoll interposed, “and I want to know who she is.”

“She is the English for Jeanningros, the French general at Monterey, who’d heard about those negotiations with the República. But Shelby formed in battle line, to storm his old city, and at the same time sent word explaining that he hadn’t accepted any offer from the República. So, instead of shooting and hanging, Jenny asked us around for supper. That’s where I left ’em.”

“What for?”

“W’y,” said Boone in surprise, “to see if you’d gotten here, and to take back Maximilian’s answer.”

“But what’s the use? The Trans-Mississippi went and surrendered.”

Driscoll ruefully shook his head. “Maximilian wants us,” he said, “if we’ll give up our arms first.”

“If we––”

“If we will surrender, Dan.”

Mr. Boone’s jaw fell. The phrase that would measure the depth of the proposed ignominy would not come. Finally, he dug from his pocket a bright new gold coin, twenty pesos, and contemplated reflectively the side that bore Maximilian’s effigy.

“I’ve got the cub repohter’s superstition,” he said at last. “You get your cards printed,” here he tapped the coin significantly, “and you’re sure to lose your job–still we might of helped him.”

There was nothing, though, for Daniel but to turn back and meet the Brigade. Learning Maximilian’s decision, the Missourians would probably join the Córdova colony. Boone reckoned that he would. He discovered that he was tired of fighting. Perhaps the new citizens at Córdova would want an organ, a weekly at least; and already his nostrils were sniffing the pungent, fascinating aroma of printer’s ink. Then he asked Driscoll what he thought of doing, now that he was free.

“Don’t know,” came the reply lonesomely. “Stir around, I guess. There’s a flying column leaving this week to capture Juarez. Maybe that’ll do me.”

That unleashed hawk which was the flying column failed to clutch its prey. From the City of Mexico across the far northwestern desert the Chasseurs and cuirassiers rode their swift Arabian steeds, and into the town of Chihuahua at last. But the old Indian for whom they came was not there. Benito Juarez had fled. He must have known. Yet how, no one might conjecture. It was as though some watchful Republican fairy had marked the sturdy, squat patriot as the one hope of the Empire’s overthrow, and did not propose to have him taken. Scouts, spies, the entire French secret service, delved, gestured, and sweated. But they laid bare next to nothing. At the Palacio Munícipal a number of functionaries told of a peon in breech clout, a wretch coated with alkali dust till the muscles of his legs looked like grayish ropes, who had emerged from the cacti plain ten days before and come running into Chihuahua. The peon had made direct for the Palacio, where, in some way, he had contrived a secret word with Don Benito; and that very day Don Benito with his one minister, Lerdo, had set out toward the north.

Their quarry had escaped, but Driscoll was not sorry. More than once he had felt a vague shame for the unsportsmanlike chase after one lone, indomitable old man. Driscoll held a commission, which Michel Ney, happily recovering, had procured for him from the marshal. But as the American’s healthy spirits, like cleansing by vigorous blood, swept the gloom from his mind, he began to wonder at the craving for bustle and forgetfulness which had made him snatch at such an offer. The corners of his mouth twisted in whimsical self-scorn. He, one of your drooping, unrequited lovers! “Shucks!” that is what he thought. And he persuaded himself that it was all over. Quite, quite persuaded himself. But as a matter of fact, he hoped that he might never have to see her again.

The fight was a rousing one, and Driscoll enjoyed himself for the first time in many days. His Mexicans behaved as he could have wished, better than he had hoped. At the start in the familiar uproarious hell, he missed the hard set, exultant faces of his old Jackson county troop, and seeing only tawny visages through the smoke and hearing only foreign yells, he felt a queer twinge of homesickness. But he was at once ashamed, for the humble little chocolate centaurs whom he had been set to train were dying about him with lethargic cynicism, just as they were bidden. Wearing a charm, either the Virgin’s picture in a tin frame, or the cross, they might have worn the crescent. They were as effective as Moslems. They were ruthless fatalists.

Michel Ney also spent a diverting half-hour. He had lingered for the fray. Waving a broken sabre snapped off at the hilt, he charged with Gallic verve and got himself knocked under his kicking and wounded horse, and pummeled by Liberal muskets on every side. Driscoll saw, and straightened out matters. Handing the Frenchman a whole sabre, he reproved him soberly, as a carpenter might an apprentice caught using a plane for a ripsaw.

After it was over, the living of the enemy were prisoners. The victors marched them to Uruapan near by, because it was charged that at this place two of the captured Liberals, Generals Arteaga and Salazar, had lately shot two Imperialists. Here, in their turn, they were promptly executed.

Driscoll heard the volleys, ran to the spot, and saw the last horrid spasms.

“What–what––”

Ney turned on him a sickened look.

“What new decree? These dead men were prisoners of war. If murderers, they weren’t tried.”

“It’s the decree I brought from Maximilian, the decree of general amnesty.”

Driscoll glared fiercely at such a jest, but to his utter amazement Ney was quite in earnest.

He who had commanded the shooting squad stooped over the corpses, a smoking pistol in his hand. Now he glanced up at Driscoll. “Pues, si señores,” he said, “of amnesty, yes,” and chuckling, he indicated the bodies with his pistol. “But wait––” He thought he saw a form quiver, one he had overlooked. Remedying this with a belated coup de grace through the brain, he shoved back his white gold-bordered sombrero and mopped his forehead as a laborer whose labor is done.

“Under which general amnesty, caballeros,” he went on merrily, “you have just witnessed the first act. My loyalty to the Emperor grows. His Majesty has a sense of humor.”

It was Don Tiburcio. He had deserted the Contras to waylay the rich bullion convoy of which Rodrigo Galán had told him. But the convoy never came. Rodrigo, the “sin vergüenza,” had not levied toll at all. He had swallowed it whole, a luscious morsel of several millions in silver and gold. The coup was of a humor the less appreciated by Don Tiburcio because he had figured on doing the very same thing himself. At present he was chief of scouts under Mendez, and commanded the Exploradores, audacious barbarians who were invaluable for their knowledge of the country.

Driscoll left his informants, and walked up and down, up and down, alone. It did not occur to him to fill the cob pipe between his teeth. A scowl settled between his eyes, and it deepened and grew ugly. The desperado was forming in the man–desperado, as contrast to polite conventions. Desperado, as primitive man, who hews straight, cutting whom or what he might, cutting first of all through the veneered bark of civilization. For this reason, in this sense, he might be termed outlaw. And walking up and down, up and down, he hewed till he had laid bare the core of the matter. And he saw it naked, without the polish. Thereupon he knew what he was going to do.

He saddled Demijohn, and Demijohn followed at his shoulder to the jefetura. Here, at the entrance, under the brick-red portales, Driscoll left the horse, untied, and opened the door and passed within.

“Monsieur,” he said with mock formality, “to-day, when you permitted yourself to save my skin, you called me a fool. But I would have you observe, monsieur, that only my patron divinity, the god of fools, is permitted to know so much.”

Driscoll loosed himself from the affectionate grip, and turned to Mendez.

“Colonel,” he said, “I’m going to get out of this.”

“What? Oh come, mi capitan, find a better one!”

“It’s not a joke, sir. Profiting by a commission that does not bind me, I am here to tell you good-bye.”

“Jean, mon ami!” Ney cried in protest.

Don Tiburcio waited with keen appreciation, as he always did when the unexpectedness of this Gringo was unfolding. The others stared agape at the man between them and the door. Mendez saw too that he was in earnest, and he began to argue, almost to entreat. The Mexican leader had lost the quality of mercy in civil wars that had touched him cruelly, that had exacted many near to him, but there was sincerity in the man, and men were won by the stirring sound of his voice.

“You would retire now,” he exclaimed, “now, when every soul here may look for promotion, and none of them more than you, Señor Dreescol?”

But he did not stop there. He conjured up a tempting vista of long and honored life under an empire that was now supreme. Even the scum of rebellion yet left on the calm surface was that day swept away, and naught remained but to enjoy the favors of his grateful Majesty.

Don Tiburcio was not disappointed.

Mendez sprang to his feet and his voice was stentorian, as when he rallied his men by the magnet of fury and hatred.

“It’s desertion!” he roared.

“Or simple honesty,” Driscoll corrected him. “But it doesn’t matter. The penalty is no worse for a deserter, if you catch him.”

Mendez curbed his rage. He did not wish to lose this man. That is, he would regret deeply having to kill him.

“Why do you mean to change?” he demanded.

“Because I can’t feel right! It’s like–somehow it’s like being an accomplice of murderers.”

“Dios mio, I suppose Your Mercy and his tender heart refers to the Decree?”

“Partly. That thing is a blanket warrant of death. Just because your enemy can’t fight any longer––”

“But you forget, señor, the mines that exploded in the highways. You forget the poisoned springs, the ambuscades, the massacres. Would they not shoot prisoners too, your new friends?”

“Si señor, as you and others may some day experience personally.”

“Then, mighty judge, condemn them also.”

“Don’t I? But I can’t blame them. They are punishing crime.”

“But not of murder, as we did to-day.”

“That too, for that was murder to-day. But I was thinking of a worse crime. I was thinking of theft, sir.”

“Theft? How can that be worse?”

“Señor, lay down your pistols and sabre, there, on that table, because, by Heaven, I shall stop you! But if you are armed, I–I shall have to shoot you, too.”

“Hang it, Mendez, you’re a good fellow! But–I can’t help it.”

“Lay them down, you renegade!”

Driscoll removed his sabre and gravely placed it on the table.

“The guns are my own,” he said. “Dupin had them returned to me. He took them. Suppose you take them, Colonel Mendez!”

He was in the doorway, and from there he faced them. The day was hot, and Mendez had taken off his belt with his weapons. But the others were armed. Yet they hesitated. They were brave enough for death, but before the certainty of death for at least one among them and the uncertainty of which one, they paused. Driscoll had not touched the black six-shooters under his ribs. That would have snapped the psychological fetter. As he expected, Mendez sprang first. This put an unarmed man between himself and the others. In the instant he wheeled, was in the saddle, and clattering down the street.

Back in the room Mendez saw his blunder and made way. Ney passed him first, reached the door, aimed and fired. But someone behind him touched his arm, and the ball sped high. Ney turned, and saw Tiburcio filling the door against the others, and regarding him with evil challenge in his eye.

“Oh, don’t think that I hold it against you,” Ney cried gratefully.

Tiburcio half laughed.

“A man who don’t want prisoners shot is better with the enemy than dead,” he said.

Ney heard the hoof beats, already far away.

“May the god of fools look after him too,” he murmured heavily.

The fugitive swept round the first corner of the street and on through the town. None thought to stop him. Soldiers and townsmen supposed him on the Empire’s urgent business, and when they knew better, there was no longer hope for their ponies against the great Missouri buckskin, now a diminishing dusty speck mid cacti and maguey.

“The devil of it is,” Driscoll muttered ruefully, “I don’t know where there’s anybody to desert to!”

However, he was feeling much better.