Bat Hardin was getting fully immersed in his book when Ferd Zogbaum’s knock came on the door. He gave a grunt of displeasure, marked his page and got up.

Ferd’s camper was on the slow and awkward side, comparatively, so Bat suggested that they take his electro-steamer. Linares proper was about a kilometer down the road and it took them only minutes to arrive.

On the way, Bat said, “What do you expect to find?”

“Darned if I know,” Ferd said grumpily. “It wasn’t my idea to go into town. It was yours.”

Bat said, “I thought we’d just scout around a little. Do you speak Spanish?”

“No. A little German.”

“That’ll do us a hell of a lot of good,” Bat said. “A great couple of snoopers we’ll be. About all I can say in Spanish is una mas cerveza, por favor.”

“What does that mean?”

“Another beer, please.”

“Great,” Ferd grinned sourly. “We’d better make a beeline for a bar, then.”

The town of Linares boasted a population of approximately 14,000 and had little call to fame. The area was not particularly suited to farming, mining nor, certainly, industry, and since its scenic attractions were only fair, tourism was also a matter of little gain. Thus it was that the community had hardly participated in the growth of Mexico proper such as the progressive cities of Monterrey, Guadalajara, Vera Cruz and above all Mexico City itself. In fact, Linares remained a town of yesteryear, a sleepy, dull and, at this time of the year, at least, dusty backwash to the days of Pancho Villa.

The main highway leading west and, further on, south, compounded insult to injury by avoiding Linares proper. Bat and Ferd had to take a side street to the village zocco or plaza, the center about which every Mexican hamlet, village or city revolves.