If he could be bound, and locked into that rear room.

She looked at the two men--the Mexican had slouched down into a chair, apparently having abandoned all hope of escape, his chin lowered on his breast, his eyes hidden beneath the wide brim of his hat.

He was a perfect picture of depression, but Cavendish appeared alert enough, the deadly knife still gripped in his hand, a motionless, threatening figure.

Feeling no trepidation, she crossed toward the other room, noting as she passed that Mendez lifted his head to observe her movements.

She paused at the door, turning suspiciously, but the man had already seemingly lost interest, and his head again drooped.