"Si, Señor Capitan, and because—you didn't get your man."
The collector of customs stood with his cigar carefully poised in his left hand. The assistant pushed back his hat and rumpled his black hair.
All official significance set aside, Waring and the captain of rurales faced each other with the blunt challenge between them: "You didn't get your man!"
The captain glanced at the two quiet figures in the doorway. Beyond them were his own men, but between him and his command were two of the fastest guns in the Southwest. He was on alien ground. This gringo had insulted him.
Waring waited for the word that burned in the other's eyes.
The collector of customs drew a big silver watch from his waistband.
"It's about time—to go feed the horses," he said.
With the sound of his voice the tension relaxed. Waring eyed the captain as though waiting for him to depart. "You'll find that horse in the corral—back of the customs office," he said.
The Mexican swung round and strode out, followed by his man.
The rurales mounted and rode down the street. The three Americans followed a few paces behind. Opposite the office, they paused.
"Go along with 'em and see that they get the right horse," said the collector.