"Come in, my friends!" howled Pedro Guarez. "Never mind the young tailor's model at the door."
The Mexicans outside heard, and the appeal frenzied them. Four or five started toward the barn-door, the rest closing in behind them.
Swish! Lieutenant Hal's sword was again in the air.
"Who wants to come first?" demanded the Army boy dryly.
The rabble paused, then crowded back slowly. There was something in Hal Overton's cold, steady, masterful eyes that awed them more than any fears of their own.
Captain Foster tossed and threw hay with a will until he had uncovered a compact pile of small packing cases.
"Sixty," he announced, after a quick estimation. "And each case, Guarez, contains ten rifles. Six hundred in all—enough with which to equip quite a respectable insurrecto regiment on the other side of the Rio Grande."
"There are no rifles there, nothing with which to make war," snarled the fellow.
"I accept your statement, with reservations," replied Foster dryly.
"Even though they were rifles, the United States law does not forbid one to buy or sell guns," insisted the Mexican.