"You're likely to find anything from a worm to a mammoth below the border," Ken said.
"I happen to be an agent."
"Vaudeville?" asked Ken.
"Oh, no. No," he laughed. "I'm just curious, that's all. I like your style of dancing. Have you ever been East?"
"Texas."
Shaw laughed again, a short brittle laugh. "Will you meet my party? I'm with a young lady and her mother. She's a dancer—the young lady, I mean."
Ken shook his head. "I'm not in the mood, Mr. Shaw."
"You'll forgive me for—"
Ken interrupted: "That was my farewell dance. I'm on my way out."
"Perhaps we could meet in the Club or in Caliente. Understand, this is purely curiosity on my part—finding a natural dancer this way."
"And I suppose you want to put me in vaudeville with your young lady friend as a partner? I went for that sort of thing nearly three years ago. I'm through with vaudeville, dance halls or anything connected with dancing."
"I'm sorry," said the agent. He proffered a hand.
Ken left Frank and Jack's. As he crossed the street to the Casa Verde, a growing fear assailed him. He had ignored the hand of a friend. He shrugged his shoulders as he entered the hotel.
Lopez stood at the door, his face beaming. "Sorry to lose you," he said. "Adios—my friend."
Ken's belongings were few. The bag he carried was old, the lock frail. He faced north and started toward the border.
Dusk was gathering. In the doorway of Frank and Jack's
