CHAPTER XXIIN THE GUEST HOUSE“Rojerio Rocha! He has escaped them!” Others took up the cry, and cheers from those along the wall greeted the flying man, cheers of welcome and encouragement. The Indians on the crest were still firing at him. He dodged from side to side as he ran. Now he dropped the white cloth he had carried, glued elbows to his sides, and ran on. He stumbled, fell, regained his feet.“Help him!” thecomandantecried. “Aid him inside, you men!”The fugitive crashed against the wall. A musket was let down, and he grasped it, and they pulled him up and lifted him over—to see him collapse on the ground breathless, his eyes rolling, clutching at the breast of his cloak as if it pained him to try to breathe.“He has been hit!” a fray cried; but the man shook his head. They gave him wine, and he drank, and gasped until he got his breath.“The fiends!” he cursed. “They were holding me—expected to torture me—with Señorita Fernandez—said her father—had been cruel. I managed—to get free of bonds. They will—attack again!”Even as he spoke the second attack came. Again athrong of savages rushed down the slope while others poured a volley at the wall. The hostiles in the orchard joined in the charge.They reached the corner of the wall, piled against it, made their way upward in the face of musket flashes and blades. Shrieking chiefs urged them on. One by one the defenders crashed to the ground inside. The ranks closed up. All other parts of the square were abandoned as men rushed to the threatened corner. The man who had escaped the hostiles was forgotten.He got upon his feet and stood against the wall for a moment, clutching at his breast as if it still pained him to breathe, and then he tottered toward the storehouse. A jug of water was on the step, and he lifted it and drank, then staggered inside.One soldier had remained there to guard, and was standing at the wide window, musket ready, prepared to fire and give an alarm if the Indians attempted to gain entrance there. He whirled around as the other man stumbled against a counter.“Thank the saints you escaped!” he cried. “It was a close call, Señor Rocha.”“A musket,” the other demanded. “Weapon and ammunition! Am I to stand by idly while others fight?”The soldier got a musket from the corner and handed it over, and turned for powder and ball. The man behind him swung the heavy weapon over his head and crashed it down on the soldier’s skull, and the storehouse guard was stretched on the floor.It did not seem to pain him to breathe now, for hewas done with acting. He hurried across to the window and worked frantically to unfasten the bars. For an instant he leaned out and waved a cloth.A group of hostiles beside the orchard wall had been waiting for that signal. Now they ran wildly across the open space—a score of them—some falling on the way, men from other groups of hostiles joining them. Shrieking their battle-cries, they poured through the window the renegade had opened and plunged into the plaza.At the same time hostiles swarmed over the end of the wall, enough of them to make a stand. Beset front and rear, the defenders stood back to back and fought courageously. More men fell. Loyal neophytes had been slain as they loaded weapons; and there was no time for the remaining defenders to load now, nothing to do except use muskets as clubs, hurl pistols in savage faces, and wield swords and poniards.“The women—the church!” thecomandanteshrieked to a fray.It was the first admission that conditions were serious. The fray bowed his head and joined another, and they hurried across the plaza to the guest house, where Señora Vallejo was praying in a corner and Señorita Anita standing at a window watching the combat, a knife clutched in one hand.“Quick—the church—it is the last stand!” one of the frailes cried.Theseñoragot up and hurried to the door, grasping at a fray’s arm, tears streaming down her cheeks.“Señorita,” the fray called.“I remain here,” she said.“Thecomandantehas said you must go to the church.”“I remain here!”In her brain was beating the sentence the caballero had spoken—that she was to remain in the guest house, no matter what transpired. She was not certain the words had not been a boast. She could not imagine how a rescue could be made, though she had reason to know he was clever at rescue work, unless he led the hostiles and intended to save her after the mission had been taken. But she remembered, too, how he had declared he was no traitor, and believed in her heart he had spoken truth.“This is madness!” one of the frailes cried.“Go! I remain here!” she answered.“We must make haste. I’ll return for you,señorita!”The frailes hurried outside with theseñoraand ran across to the church. The defenders were retreating across the plaza now, fighting every foot of the way, backing sullenly but hopelessly and attempting to carry their wounded with them.Looking out of the window, Señorita Anita Fernandez knew in her heart that the frailes would never be able to return across the plaza for her—that hostiles would be in front of the guest house before they had placed Señora Vallejo inside the church.She drew back from the window, still clutching the poniard. She could not feel much faith in the caballero; saw naught but death before her. Death self-inflicted if hostiles invaded the guest house and startedto take her prisoner! Death if the caballero appeared with mask thrown aside and as leader of the hostiles after all! Death if he did not appear and the traitorous Rojerio Rocha did, and attempted to claim her as bride! Death—naught but death!She rushed to the window again and saw that the defenders had been driven back to the door of the church. The plaza was filled with shrieking hostiles. Muskets crashed, steel rang. Dead men and wounded men were scattered over the ground. The storehouse was being looted even now.Again she crept back near the fireplace in the wall, and her lips moved in prayer. The door was thrown open, and she made the poniard ready, for it was an Indian who stood framed in it for an instant. Then she gave a glad cry—the Indian was Pedro, the faithful servant.But the cry died in her throat as she remembered that there was a possibility that even Pedro had turned hostile now that men of his race were victors. She gazed wide-eyed as he half closed the door and faced her.“I have come for you,señorita,” he said. “I noticed you did not go to the church with theseñoraand others. But we cannot cross the plaza now, for it is full of hostiles. We must remain here—and I can die beside you,señorita!”He turned to close the door and lift the heavy bar across it, but it was hurled wide open against him, sending him recoiling against the wall, and another entered.“You?” Señorita Anita gasped. “You—Rojerio Rocha!”He made no answer, scarcely looked at her. Whirling upon the neophyte he pointed toward the open door.“Out!” he commanded.For an instant the Indian seemed to flinch with fear; then courage returned to him, for he thought the man before him misunderstood.“I am no hostile,” he said proudly. “I came to help protect the Señorita Anita. Ask her if I have offered harm.”“Out!” came the command again.“I am loyal. The hostiles will slay me!”“Go out, I say!”The man’s manner seemed to flash a warning to the neophyte. He turned swiftly and glanced at theseñorita, and observed that she was clutching the poniard and staring at the man in horror.“If theseñoritacommands—” the neophyte began.“Will you go out, dog?”“No—no, Pedro!” the girl implored. “This man——”But the roar of rage from the throat of the white man drowned the remainder of her sentence, and the neophyte did not hear. Standing against the wall he beheld the other man bearing down upon him with poniard ready.“I am loyal!” he cried. “I will help you! You do not understand! I am Pedro, and I have——”A hand clutched at his throat, the point of the bladewas at his breast. He was hurled to the doorway, staggered, stumbled when the other man threw weight against him.“Here is a loyal man—attend to him!” he heard his antagonist shriek.Then he fell full length into the plaza, and shrieking hostiles rushed upon him.“Do not—understand!” he gasped; and died from a pistol shot.And a laughing renegade hurled the door shut, barred it securely, and still laughing turned to face the terror-stricken girl crouching at the corner of the big fireplace.
“Rojerio Rocha! He has escaped them!” Others took up the cry, and cheers from those along the wall greeted the flying man, cheers of welcome and encouragement. The Indians on the crest were still firing at him. He dodged from side to side as he ran. Now he dropped the white cloth he had carried, glued elbows to his sides, and ran on. He stumbled, fell, regained his feet.
“Help him!” thecomandantecried. “Aid him inside, you men!”
The fugitive crashed against the wall. A musket was let down, and he grasped it, and they pulled him up and lifted him over—to see him collapse on the ground breathless, his eyes rolling, clutching at the breast of his cloak as if it pained him to try to breathe.
“He has been hit!” a fray cried; but the man shook his head. They gave him wine, and he drank, and gasped until he got his breath.
“The fiends!” he cursed. “They were holding me—expected to torture me—with Señorita Fernandez—said her father—had been cruel. I managed—to get free of bonds. They will—attack again!”
Even as he spoke the second attack came. Again athrong of savages rushed down the slope while others poured a volley at the wall. The hostiles in the orchard joined in the charge.
They reached the corner of the wall, piled against it, made their way upward in the face of musket flashes and blades. Shrieking chiefs urged them on. One by one the defenders crashed to the ground inside. The ranks closed up. All other parts of the square were abandoned as men rushed to the threatened corner. The man who had escaped the hostiles was forgotten.
He got upon his feet and stood against the wall for a moment, clutching at his breast as if it still pained him to breathe, and then he tottered toward the storehouse. A jug of water was on the step, and he lifted it and drank, then staggered inside.
One soldier had remained there to guard, and was standing at the wide window, musket ready, prepared to fire and give an alarm if the Indians attempted to gain entrance there. He whirled around as the other man stumbled against a counter.
“Thank the saints you escaped!” he cried. “It was a close call, Señor Rocha.”
“A musket,” the other demanded. “Weapon and ammunition! Am I to stand by idly while others fight?”
The soldier got a musket from the corner and handed it over, and turned for powder and ball. The man behind him swung the heavy weapon over his head and crashed it down on the soldier’s skull, and the storehouse guard was stretched on the floor.
It did not seem to pain him to breathe now, for hewas done with acting. He hurried across to the window and worked frantically to unfasten the bars. For an instant he leaned out and waved a cloth.
A group of hostiles beside the orchard wall had been waiting for that signal. Now they ran wildly across the open space—a score of them—some falling on the way, men from other groups of hostiles joining them. Shrieking their battle-cries, they poured through the window the renegade had opened and plunged into the plaza.
At the same time hostiles swarmed over the end of the wall, enough of them to make a stand. Beset front and rear, the defenders stood back to back and fought courageously. More men fell. Loyal neophytes had been slain as they loaded weapons; and there was no time for the remaining defenders to load now, nothing to do except use muskets as clubs, hurl pistols in savage faces, and wield swords and poniards.
“The women—the church!” thecomandanteshrieked to a fray.
It was the first admission that conditions were serious. The fray bowed his head and joined another, and they hurried across the plaza to the guest house, where Señora Vallejo was praying in a corner and Señorita Anita standing at a window watching the combat, a knife clutched in one hand.
“Quick—the church—it is the last stand!” one of the frailes cried.
Theseñoragot up and hurried to the door, grasping at a fray’s arm, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Señorita,” the fray called.
“I remain here,” she said.
“Thecomandantehas said you must go to the church.”
“I remain here!”
In her brain was beating the sentence the caballero had spoken—that she was to remain in the guest house, no matter what transpired. She was not certain the words had not been a boast. She could not imagine how a rescue could be made, though she had reason to know he was clever at rescue work, unless he led the hostiles and intended to save her after the mission had been taken. But she remembered, too, how he had declared he was no traitor, and believed in her heart he had spoken truth.
“This is madness!” one of the frailes cried.
“Go! I remain here!” she answered.
“We must make haste. I’ll return for you,señorita!”
The frailes hurried outside with theseñoraand ran across to the church. The defenders were retreating across the plaza now, fighting every foot of the way, backing sullenly but hopelessly and attempting to carry their wounded with them.
Looking out of the window, Señorita Anita Fernandez knew in her heart that the frailes would never be able to return across the plaza for her—that hostiles would be in front of the guest house before they had placed Señora Vallejo inside the church.
She drew back from the window, still clutching the poniard. She could not feel much faith in the caballero; saw naught but death before her. Death self-inflicted if hostiles invaded the guest house and startedto take her prisoner! Death if the caballero appeared with mask thrown aside and as leader of the hostiles after all! Death if he did not appear and the traitorous Rojerio Rocha did, and attempted to claim her as bride! Death—naught but death!
She rushed to the window again and saw that the defenders had been driven back to the door of the church. The plaza was filled with shrieking hostiles. Muskets crashed, steel rang. Dead men and wounded men were scattered over the ground. The storehouse was being looted even now.
Again she crept back near the fireplace in the wall, and her lips moved in prayer. The door was thrown open, and she made the poniard ready, for it was an Indian who stood framed in it for an instant. Then she gave a glad cry—the Indian was Pedro, the faithful servant.
But the cry died in her throat as she remembered that there was a possibility that even Pedro had turned hostile now that men of his race were victors. She gazed wide-eyed as he half closed the door and faced her.
“I have come for you,señorita,” he said. “I noticed you did not go to the church with theseñoraand others. But we cannot cross the plaza now, for it is full of hostiles. We must remain here—and I can die beside you,señorita!”
He turned to close the door and lift the heavy bar across it, but it was hurled wide open against him, sending him recoiling against the wall, and another entered.
“You?” Señorita Anita gasped. “You—Rojerio Rocha!”
He made no answer, scarcely looked at her. Whirling upon the neophyte he pointed toward the open door.
“Out!” he commanded.
For an instant the Indian seemed to flinch with fear; then courage returned to him, for he thought the man before him misunderstood.
“I am no hostile,” he said proudly. “I came to help protect the Señorita Anita. Ask her if I have offered harm.”
“Out!” came the command again.
“I am loyal. The hostiles will slay me!”
“Go out, I say!”
The man’s manner seemed to flash a warning to the neophyte. He turned swiftly and glanced at theseñorita, and observed that she was clutching the poniard and staring at the man in horror.
“If theseñoritacommands—” the neophyte began.
“Will you go out, dog?”
“No—no, Pedro!” the girl implored. “This man——”
But the roar of rage from the throat of the white man drowned the remainder of her sentence, and the neophyte did not hear. Standing against the wall he beheld the other man bearing down upon him with poniard ready.
“I am loyal!” he cried. “I will help you! You do not understand! I am Pedro, and I have——”
A hand clutched at his throat, the point of the bladewas at his breast. He was hurled to the doorway, staggered, stumbled when the other man threw weight against him.
“Here is a loyal man—attend to him!” he heard his antagonist shriek.
Then he fell full length into the plaza, and shrieking hostiles rushed upon him.
“Do not—understand!” he gasped; and died from a pistol shot.
And a laughing renegade hurled the door shut, barred it securely, and still laughing turned to face the terror-stricken girl crouching at the corner of the big fireplace.