about Billy knew not, nor did he care. There should be

fighting and he loved that--that much he knew. The ethics of

Pesita's warfare troubled him not. He had heard that some

great American general had said: "War is hell." Billy was

willing to take his word for it, and accept anything which

came in the guise of war as entirely proper and as it should

be.

The afternoon was far gone when Billy drew rein in the

camp of the outlaw band. Pesita with the bulk of his raiders

was out upon some excursion to the north. Only half a dozen

men lolled about, smoking or sleeping away the hot day. They

looked at Billy in evident surprise when they saw him riding

in alone; but they asked no questions and Billy offered no

explanation--his report was for the ears of Pesita only.

The balance of the day Billy spent in acquiring further

knowledge of Spanish by conversing with those of the men

who remained awake, and asking innumerable questions. It

was almost sundown when Pesita rode in. Two riderless

horses were led by troopers in the rear of the little column

and three men swayed painfully in their saddles and their

clothing was stained with blood.

Evidently Pesita had met with resistance. There was much

voluble chattering on the part of those who had remained

behind in their endeavors to extract from their returning

comrades the details of the day's enterprise. By piecing

together the various scraps of conversation he could understand

Billy discovered that Pesita had ridden far to demand tribute

from a wealthy ranchero, only to find that word of his coming

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