scorpion ran through the chapparal; there a tarantula scurried away beneath the dusty leaves of a cactus plant. Up in the transparent blue a vulture soared, and made Dick think of the abundant feasts that were spread for these carrion birds all over Mexico. And just then as he rounded a curve in the road, his heart leaped into his throat and his hands went up in response to a quick, sharp word of command.

"Fool, fool," he groaned to himself. Then he rose to the emergency. He took a grip on himself. And his cool gray eyes gave no sign of his inward tumult as he looked steadily at his captor and returned gaze for gaze. And as he gazed, the conviction grew that his life was not worth a moment's purchase.

Before him, surrounded by his followers, stood a man of medium height, but evidently possessed of great muscular strength. He wore a nondescript costume of buckskin, studded with silver buttons and surmounted by a serape that had once been red, but now was sadly faded by wind and weather. A murderous machete was thrust into a flaunting sash that served as a belt and a black sombrero overshadowed his face.

That face! Dick had never seen one so hideous except in nightmare. A sword cut had slashed the right cheek from the temple to the chin. The mouth from which several teeth were missing was like a gash. His eyes, narrowed beneath drooping lids, were glinting with ferocity. They were the eyes of a demon and the soul that looked through them was scarred and seamed by every evil passion. So the old pirates might have looked as they forced their victims to walk the plank. So an Apache Indian might have gloated over a captive at the stake. Dick's soul turned sick within him, but outwardly he was as cold as ice and hard as steel, as he stared unflinchingly into the cruel eyes before him.

Perhaps that level gaze saved his life. The bandit's hand was trembling on the trigger. One dead man more or less made no difference to him and he could rob as easily after shooting as before. Something told Dick that, had he weakened for a moment, a bullet would have found lodgment in his heart. He braced himself for the strange duel and as he looked, he saw the savage eyes change into a half-resentful admiration. It had been a case of touch and go, but Dick, by sheer nerve had won a brief reprieve. Without lowering the revolvers, the bandit called to one of the scoundrels, of whom twenty stood near by with carbines ready:

"Search him, Pedro," he commanded.

The fellow come forward quickly. Every movement showed the awe and fear in which the chief was held. He went through every pocket with a skill born of long experience. Dick's watch and money were taken from him, and, at a sign from the leader, his coat and shoes were also added to the loot.

"Now tie him and put him on one of the horses," said the captain, "and we'll be off. There may be some more of these accursed Americanos near by."

In a twinkling a lariat was dragged from the saddlehorn of the broncho, and Dick's arms were roughly tied behind his back. The rope cut cruelly into his flesh, but, with such an undaunted prisoner, they were determined to take no chances. Then he was lifted to the saddle and his feet tied beneath the horse. A bandit leaped up behind him and grasped the reins with one hand, while he held Dick with the other. Not till he was thus securely trussed and unable to move hand or foot, did the chief lower the revolvers with which he had kept the prisoner covered. A sharp command, a quick vaulting into the saddles, and the guerilla band was off to its eyrie in the mountains.

Events had passed so rapidly that Dick's brain was in a whirl. It seemed as though he were in a frightful dream from which he must presently awake. Scarcely ten minutes had wrought this fearful change in his fortunes. A quarter of an hour ago he was free, serene, apparently master of himself and his fate. Now he was a captive, stripped of money and goods, tied hand and foot, in the power of a desperate scoundrel, while every step was carrying him further away from happiness and friends and life.

For he did not disguise to himself that death probably yawned for him at the journey's end. Whatever the whim that had saved his life so far, it was unlikely to continue. He tried to figure out why the revolver had not barked when it had him so surely at its mercy. It was absurd to think that this human tiger had been deterred by any scruple. He was of the type that revelled in blood, who like a wild beast lusted for the kill. Perhaps he had not wanted to leave the evidence of his crime so close to the victim's friends, whose fury might prompt to bloody revenge. The noise of the shooting might have brought them like hornets about his ears. Or did some idea of ransom, if it could be managed, appeal to his avarice? Or, possibly, he might be held as a hostage to be exchanged for some precious rascal now held by the enemy. In these last suppositions there were some glimmerings of hope and Dick drew from them such comfort as he might; but underneath them all was the grim probability that would not down that he was probably bound on his last journey.

His tortured thoughts turned back to Bert and Tom. He could see them now in his mind's eye, chatting and laughing on the edge of the ravine, while the men shored up the tottering trestle. Presently they would turn back and idly wonder what had become of Dick. A little longer and their wonder would change into a certain uneasiness. Still they would not permit themselves to think for a moment that anything could have happened to him. They would guess that he might be in the smoker or the buffet and would saunter leisurely through the various cars. Only then when they failed to find him would they become seriously alarmed. And he could see the look of fierce determination and deadly resolution that would leap to their eyes when they realized that he must have met with disaster.

For they would come after him. He had no doubt of that. Some time, some way, they would come upon him, dead or alive, unless their own lives were lost in the effort. He knew that they would stick to the trail like bloodhounds and never falter for an instant. They had faced too many perils together to quail at this supreme test when his life was at stake. Dear old Bert! Good old Tom! His heart warmed at the thought of them and a mist came over his eyes.

But what chance did they have of finding him? They were in a strange land where even the language was unknown to them, and where the natives looked with suspicion on everything American. The country through which they were passing was of the wildest kind, and the hard sunbaked trail left little trace. The woods were thick and at times his captors had to use their machetes to cut a way through the dense under growth. In places where streams were met, they walked their horses through the water to confuse the trail still further. They were evidently familiar with every foot of ground, and no doubt their camp had been located in some place where it would be practically impossible for pursuers ta come upon them without abundant warning. The chances of success were so remote as to be well nigh hopeless. There was no use in deluding himself, and Dick pulled himself together and resolutely faced the probability of death.

He did not want to die. Every fibre in him flamed out in fierce revolt against the thought. Why, he had scarcely begun to live. He stood at the very threshold of life. Some lines he had read only a few days before, curiously enough came back to him:

  "'Tis life, of which our nerves are scant,
  O life, not death, for which we pant,
  More life and fuller that we want."

Yes, that was it. He wanted life, wanted it eagerly, wanted it