Kestner viewed him with a carelessly cynical eye.
"What're you payin'?"
"Three dollars a day, and everything found. That includes transportation from New York."
"In gold?"
The query elicited a guarded look of appraisal from the stranger in the Stetson hat. The figure in rusty brown, apparently, was not as unsophisticated as he looked.
"Gold, sure," was the final response.
"And where's the transportation to?"
The stranger waved an ambiguously comprehensive arm.
"Down South."
"But how far down?" Kestner backed disdainfully away. "Get this, my friend, first crack: No Mexican stuff for mine!"
"Oh, we'll call this the other side of the Canal."
"But what's the game?"
"Protectin' nitrate mines."
"Go on!"
"Ain't that enough?"
"Not for me." Kestner leaned sleepily against the shooting-gallery counter. The other man stood studying him.
"Look here, son, I'm roundin' up a bunch o' longhorns who can take a chance, and do what they're told, and keep their mugs shut. That's worth three dollars a day. And if they can shoot it's worth two dollars extra."
"That sounds like Banana belt revolution work."
"No, son, it's just Banana belt politics. And once
