“Look here, Gov,” he said. “I used to be an officer of the law myself. A man must conform strictly to the laws; I know all about it. But,” he added, with a wink, “we’re here, just sort of a disorganized party as happened to meet on the train. We was all going hunting near Los Andes, and we sort of came over without formalities.”
The Governor’s face beamed with happiness at this solution.
“It is magnifico! And as the custom-house cannot appraise so many weapons at once, you are permitted to carry them, gentlemen. In bond, of course, in bond,” he added hastily.
“Yesterday we had news from the hills that the Yaquis were raiding again,” he said to Benson. “Two prospectors were killed, not fifty miles from Los Andes. A bridge on the main line is down. The troops cannot be there for twenty-four hours.”
Benson nodded comprehendingly. “Same old trouble, ain’t it? I wonder these Yaquis wouldn’t get tired. We’ll fix them up good for you if they come.”
These formalities of international law having been settled, all again boarded the train, and a slow hour’s run toward the west brought them to Los Andes.
The inhabitants of this sleepy little town of Old Mexico thronged about the station and welcomed their prospective rescuers with enthusiasm. Loud cries of “Vivan Los Americanos!” echoed from end to end of the platform, as the men swarmed out of the train.
Soon the men were assigned to quarters in the various houses and shops. The plaza before the cathedral in the center of the town became, for probably the first time in its existence, a scene of activity.
As Benson was completing the disposition of his men, a Mexican ranch owner rode up to him.
“The Señor is the comandante?” he asked in broken English.