CHAPTER XIXTHE TEXAN
Steve tapped gently on the window pane with the ball of his middle finger. Instantly the sobbing was interrupted. The black head of hair lifted from the pillow to listen the better. He could guess how fearfully the heart of the girl was beating.
Again he tapped on the glass. With a lithe twist of her body the girl sat up on the bed. She waited tensely for a repetition of the sound, not quite sure from where it had come.
Her questing eyes found at last the source of it, a warning forefinger close to the pane that seemed to urge for silence. Rising, she moved slowly to the window, uneasy, doubtful, yet with hope beginning to stir at her heart. She formed a cup for her eyes with her palms so as to hold back the light while she peered through the glass into the darkness without.
Over to the left she made out the contour of a face, a brown Mexican face with quick, eager eyes that spoke comfort to her. Her first thought was that it belonged to a friend. Hard on the heels of that she gave a little cry of joyand began with trembling fingers to raise the window.
"Steve!" she cried, laughing and crying together.
And as soon as she had adjusted the window she caught his hand between both of hers and pressed it hard. Steve was here. He would save her as he had before. She was all right now.
"Ruth! Little Ruth!" he cried softly, in a whisper.
"Did you hear? Do you know?" she asked.
"Only that he brought you here, the hellhound, and that Pasquale—"
He stopped, his sentence unfinished. There was no need to alarm her about that old philanderer. Time enough for that if she scratched the surface and found the savage beneath.
"—Won't let me go home," she finished for him.
"But what are you doing here? How did Harrison trap you?"
"I had been strolling with Daisy Ellington after supper. It was not late—hardly dark yet. She stopped at the hotel to talk with Miss Winters and I started to walk home alone. I took the short cut across the empty block just below Brinker's. He was waiting among the cottonwoods there—he and two Mexicans. As soon as he stepped into the light I was afraid."
"Why didn't you cry out?"
"I didn't like to make a scene about nothing. And after that first moment I had no time. He caught hold of me and put his hand across my mouth. Horses were there ready saddled. He lifted me in front of him and kept my mouth covered till we were clear of the town. It didn't matter how much I screamed when we had reached the desert."
"I didn't think even Harrison had the nerve to kidnap an Arizona girl and bring her across the line. If he had happened to meet a bunch of cowpunchers—"
"He didn't start after me. It was you he wanted. But he found out you weren't in town and took me instead. All the way down he talked about you—boasted how he would marry me in spite of you and how he would take you and have Pasquale flay you alive."
Yeager lifted a warning finger. "Remember you have a friend here. Good-night."
He lowered himself quickly, slid down the porch post, and disappeared into the darkness almost instantly.
Ruth heard voices. One gave commands, the others answered mildly with "Si, Excellency." Dim figures moved about below, one heavy, bulky, dominating. He gestured, snapped out curt directions, and presently vanished. Twoguards were left. They paced up and down beneath her window. She understood that Pasquale was providing against any chance of escape. Half an hour ago she would have shuddered. Now she could even smile faintly at his precautions. Steve would evade them when the right time came.
Her confidence in him, since it looked only to the results, was greater than that he felt in his own power. The range-rider saw the difficulties before him. He was alone in a camp of wild, ignorant natives who moved at the nod of Pasquale. When he let himself think of Ruth as a prisoner at the mercy of that savage old outlaw's whim, the heart of Steve failed him. What could one man do against so many?
He felt that she was perfectly safe for the present, but Yeager found it impossible to sleep in the stable. Taking his blankets with him, he slipped noiselessly out to the cottonwood clump back of Pasquale's headquarters. Here, at least, he could see the light in her window and be sure that all was well with her.
As he moved noiselessly from one tree to another which gave a better view of the window, Steve stumbled against the prostrate body of a man.
Some one ripped out a sullen oath and a grip of steel caught at the ankle of the cowpuncher.
Taken by surprise, Yeager was dragged to the ground.
"What are you doing here?" demanded a voice Steve recognized instantly as belonging to Harrison.
The prisoner made no resistance. He ran into a patter of frightened, apologetic Spanish.
"What's your name?"
"Pedro Cabenza, señor," replied the owner of that name. "It is so hot in the stable. So I bring my blankets here and sleep."
"Hmp!" Harrison took time for reflection. "Know where I put up?"
"Si, señor."
The prizefighter gave him a dollar. "Stay here. Keep an eye on that lighted window upstairs. If anything happens—if you hear a noise—if a woman screams, come and knock me up right away. Understand?"
The docile Cabenza repeated his instructions like a parrot.
"Good enough," Harrison nodded. "I'll give you another dollar when you come. But don't wake me for nothing."
"No, señor."
"And you'd better keep your mouth shut unless you want your head beat off," advised the white man as he left.
The one who had given his name as Cabenzagrinned to himself. He was now Harrison's hired watcher. Both of them were in league to frustrate any deviltry on the part of Pasquale. He wondered what the prizefighter would give to know that he had his enemy so wholly in his power, that he had only to lay hands on him and cry out to doom him to a painful and a violent death.
Yeager dozed and wakened and dozed again. Always when he looked the light was still burning. Toward morning he saw the figure of Ruth in the window. When she turned away the light went out. He judged she had put her anxieties from her and given herself to sleep at last. But not until the camp began to stir with the renewal of life for another day did he leave his post and return to the stable.
During the morning he slept under a cottonwood and made up arrears of rest lost while on guard. About noon Harrison came down the street and stopped at sight of him. The man was livid with anger. Yeager could guess the reason. He had spent a stormy ten minutes with old Pasquale demanding his rights and had issued from the encounter without profit. From the place where Steve was sitting he had heard the high, excited voices. It had occurred to him that the protest of Harrison had gone about as far as it could be safely carried, for Gabriel was both a ruthless and a hot-tempered despot.
Harrison sat down sullenly without speaking and stared straight in front of him. He was boiling with impotent fury. Pasquale had the whip hand and meant to carry things his own way. Of that he no longer had any doubt. In bringing Ruth to Noche Buena he had made a great mistake.
"Do you want to make some money, you—what's your name?" he presently rasped out.
Yeager answered with the universal formula of the land. "Si, señor. And my name is Cabenza—Pedro Cabenza."
The prizefighter glanced warily around, then lowered his voice. "I mean a lot of money—twenty dollars, maybe."
"Gold?" asked the peon, wide-eyed.
"Gold. How far would you go to earn that much?"
"A long way, señor."
Harrison caught him by the wrist with a grip that drove the blood back. "Listen, Cabenza.Would you go as far as the camp of Garcia Farrugia?" The close-gripped, salient jaw was thrust forward. Black eyes blazed from a set, snarling face.
So, after all, the man was trafficking with the Federal governor all the time just as he was with the Constitutionalists. Yeager had once or twice suspected as much.
"To the camp of Governor Farrugia," gasped Cabenza. "But—what for, señor?"
"To carry him a letter. Never mind what for. You will get your pay. Is it not enough?"
"And—Pasquale?"
"Need never know. You can slip away this afternoon and be back by to-morrow night."
Cabenza shook his head regretfully. "No. I am one of the horse wranglers. My boss would miss me if I was not here. I cannot go."
The other man swore. At the same time he recognized the argument as effective. He must find a messenger who could absent himself without stirring up questions.
"Then keep your mouth clamped," ordered Harrison. "I may be able to use you here. Anyhow, I want you to be ready to help if I need you."
He slipped a dollar into the brown palm of the peon and left him.
Steve looked after him with narrowed eyes. "Mr. Harrison is liable to bump into trouble if he don't look out. He's gone crazy with the heat, looks like. First thing, he'll pick on the wrong greaser and Mr. Messenger will take the letter to Pasquale instead of Farrugia. That's about what'll happen."
Something else happened first, however, that distracted the attention of Mr. Yeager, aliasCabenza, from this regrettable possibility. A man rode into camp, followed by a Mexican leading a pack-horse. The first rider was straight, tall, and wide-shouldered; also he was deep-chested and lean-loined, forty-five or thereabout, and had "Texan" written all over his weather-beaten face and costume. At sight of him Steve gave a silent whoop of joy. A white man had come to Noche Buena, a Texan (he was ready to swear), and he wore his big serviceable six-guns low. Also, he carried on his face and in his bearing the look of reckless competence that comes only from death faced in the open fearlessly and often.
Inside of five minutes Cabenza had gathered information as follows: Adam Holcomb was a soldier of fortune who had fought all over South America and Mexico. During the Spanish War he had been a Rough Rider in Cuba and later had been a volunteer officer in the Philippines. The army routine had no attraction for him. What he liked was actual fighting. So the outbreak of the Revolution had drawn him across the border, where he had done much to lick the Constitutionalist troops into shape. Now he had come to Noche Buena to teach the artillery of the Legion how to shoot straight, after which they would all march south and take the great city with the golden gates. Personally this Gringo was a devil, of course, but Pasquale was a princeof devils whose business it was to keep all lesser ones in order. So, in the Spanish equivalent of our American slang, they should worry. Thus a comrade explained the Texan and his presence to Pedro.
Cabenza contrived to be in the way when someone was wanted to fill the water-jug of Holcomb. Ochampa, who for the moment had charge of the artillery officer, swooped down upon the peon and put him temporarily at the service of his guest to fetch and carry at his orders. So Pedro unpacked the belongings of the American officer and prepared what had to serve as the substitute for a bath. He was so adept at this that the captain privately decided to requisition him for his servant.
Having finished this and laid out towels, Cabenza brushed the boots of the captain outside while that gentleman splashed within the cabin. He chose the time while he was arranging the shaving-outfit on the table to convey a piece of information to Holcomb.
"What's that? An American woman—held captive at his house by Pasquale," repeated the soldier of fortune, astonished.
"A girl, not a woman. About eighteen, maybe," supplemented Cabenza, in Mexican, of course.
"A woman from the street, I reckon. And ifyou look into it you'll find she's here of her own free will."
Steve was now stropping a razor. His back was toward the officer, but without turning he could see him by looking in the glass.
"You've got the wrong steer, captain. She's as straight a girl as ever lived," answered Yeager in perfectly good English.
Holcomb sat up straight. "Turn round, my man," he ordered crisply.
The range-rider did as he was told. The light, blue-gray eyes of the officer bored into his.
"You're no Mexican," charged the Texan.
"No. Arizona is where I hang up my hat."
"What are you, then? A spy?"
"I reckon, maybeso." Steve admitted the thrust lightly. "Got time to hear all about it, captain?"
"Go ahead."
The range-rider told it, the whole story, so far as it could be related by him. Such details as his modesty omitted Holcomb's imagination was easily able to supply.
The Texan paced up and down the room with the long, light, military stride.
"And you say Pasquale has been with her all day—that he ate lunch with her and is riding with her now?"
"Yes. Just watch his eyes when he looks ather if you're in doubt about the old villain. There's a tiger look in them, and something else that's worse." Yeager chanced to glance out of the window. "Here they come now back from their ride. Why not meet them as they alight?"
The captain reached for his hat and led the way down the street. Cabenza followed him, a step or two in the rear. They reached headquarters just as Pasquale lifted Ruth from the saddle. He held her for a moment in his strong arms and grinned down at her frightened, fascinated eyes.
"Adios, chatita!" he murmured, his little eyes dancing with triumph.
She fled from him into the house, terror giving speed to her limbs.
Upon Holcomb the dictator turned eyes that had grown cold and harsh again.
"Welcome, captain, welcome, to the Northern Legion," he said brusquely, offering a gauntleted hand.
They went into the house together, Pasquale's arm across the shoulder of the Texan.
"Dios, I'm glad to see you, captain," the insurgent chief ran on quickly. "This riff-raff of mine can't hit a hillside. Hammer the artillery into shape and I'll say gracias."
"Yes. I see you have a countrywoman of mine visiting you," the American said quietly.
"From Arizona." The Mexican laughed harshly. "We should get together more, your country and mine. We should bind the States and the Republic together by closer ties. A man without a wife is but a half man. Captain, I shall marry."
It was common knowledge of the camp that in his outlaw days Pasquale had a wife and family. The sons were grown up now. The rumor ran that the wife had found a more congenial mate and was separated from Gabriel by common agreement. Holcomb made no reference to this free-and-easy arrangement.
"Congratulations, general. Is the lady some high-born señorita?"
"The lady you have just seen is my choice—the young woman from Arizona," answered Pasquale, flashing from under his heavy grizzled brows a sharp, questioning look at the Texan.
"Indeed! I shall be happy to meet the lady and wish her joy," replied Holcomb lightly.
"You shall, captain. She's a little reluctant yet, but Gabriel has a way of overcoming that. I shall be married on Saturday."
"Ah!"
The face of the Texan had as much expression as a piece of flint. Pasquale, watching him warily, wondered what he was thinking behind those hard, steel-gray eyes.
CHAPTER XXNEAR THE END OF HIS TRAIL
Harrison strode up and down the room furiously. "Who in Mexico is this Pasquale?" he demanded, and then answered his own question: "Scum of the earth, a peon whipped for stealing whiskey, a hill robber and murderer. In my country they'd take the scoundrel and hang him by the neck."
"True, amigo,—all true," assented Culvera suavely, examining his cigarette as he spoke. "But it is well to remember that walls have ears, and therefore to whisper—when one speaks of Gabriel."
"I'm not afraid of him," boasted the American, but his voice fell.
"I am," differed Culvera frankly. "Ramon is fond of Ramon, so he chooses a safe time to pay his debts—and he does not advertise in advance that he is going to settle."
"Bah! You sit still and do nothing. But I—By God! I'll not stand it. He has given it out he will be married Saturday. We'll see about that. Maybe he'll be buried that day instead."
The dark eyes of the Mexican swept him witha sidelong glance. If he could do it without incurring responsibility himself, he was very willing to spur on the fierce passion of this man.
"Be careful, señor. Pasquale is dangerous."
"You know he is dangerous—to Ramon Culvera. Why don't you strike and be done with it?"
"The time is not ripe. Some day—perhaps—" He let a shrug of his shoulders finish the sentence for him.
"It's always mañana with you Mexicans," sneered Harrison with a savage lift of the lip. "You want to play it safe all the time. Why don't you take a chance?"
"I play my own cards, señor," returned Ramon equably.
"You play 'em darned close to your stomach. Me, I go out on a limb oncet in a while."
"Be sure you don't stay out there—at the end of a rope," smiled the Mexican.
"They haven't grown the hemp yet that will hang Chad Harrison." The prizefighter leaned toward him, eyes shining. "If I pull it off and make my getaway—what then? Will you send the girl to me, wherever I am?"
"You mean, if you—"
"—Give Pasquale what's been coming to him for a long time."
The eyes of Culvera were slits of light. Hisface was a brown mask that covered an alert and wary attention.
"I didn't hear what you said, amigo. It is better that I shouldn't. But if I had charge of the army instead of General Pasquale my policy would be different. I would return this Arizona girl to her home."
"To her home!" broke in Harrison harshly.
"To her husband," amended the Mexican significantly, adding after an instant—"who is a good friend of mine."
"You'll stand pat on that, will you?"
"It would be my purpose to reward my friends—those who have helped the cause—if by any chance command of the Legion should fall to me."
Harrison glared at him suspiciously. "You're so smooth I don't know whether I can believe you or not. You'd sell your own father out for the right price."
"I pay my debts, señor—both kinds," suggested the Mexican, unmoved at this outburst.
"See that you do."
"Be sure I shall, amigo," returned Culvera, looking straight at him from narrowed eyes that told nothing.
The prizefighter took another turn up and down the room. He was anxious and harassed as well as driven hard by hatred and jealousy.
"The wolf is having me watched. His ordersare that I'm not to be allowed to leave camp. I don't get any chance to see him alone. If you ask me, I think he's fixing to have me knifed in the dark," Harrison burst out.
"Shouldn't wonder," agreed the young officer with a pleasant smile. He lived in an atmosphere where such things were not uncommon, and on occasion could take a hand himself.
"Fat lot you care," complained the photoplay actor sullenly. "You wouldn't lift a hand to save your pardner."
Culvera patted him on the shoulder cheerfully. "What can I do? Do I not live under the shadow myself? Can I tell when the knife will fall on me? He is without bowels of mercy, this son of a thief. But this I know: if you are watched, you must not stay here. Gabriel will be suspicious lest we are plotting something against him. Good luck, amigo."
The heavyweight took away with him a heavy heart. He had reached the stage where his hand was against that of every man. Culvera he did not trust at all out of his sight beyond the point where the interests of the young Mexican were parallel to his. In the whole camp he had no friend, not even the girl for whom he fought. As for Pasquale, Harrison had told the truth. He believed the general had doomed him. Unless he struck first, he was a lost man. Why had he beenfool enough to boast to the old scoundrel what he would do? His temper had robbed him of the chance to kill and then escape.
He passed down the street toward the river. A dozen boys and young men sat in the shadow of the adobe wall that fronted the road opposite one of the corrals. It chanced that Harrison dropped his handkerchief at this point and stooped to pick it up.
Thirty minutes later a barefooted youth came down to the river carrying an olla for water. Harrison lay sleeping under a cottonwood that edged the trail. One arm was outstretched so that the closed fist lay almost across the path.
The soldier boy whistled gayly as he walked. Oddly enough, just as he reached the sleeping Gringo, the outflung arm lifted abruptly from the ground for an inch or two. A little package shot four feet up into the air and was caught deftly by the barefoot trooper as it descended.
The lips of Harrison barely moved. "Ride to-night, Enrique. Colonel Farrugia will also reward you well."
"Si, señor," nodded Enrique, and went on his way.
The face of the boy was toward the camp on the return journey. The American was still fast asleep. The lad went whistling past him without any sign of recognition.
Several times during the next hour Harrison took a long pull from a bottle he carried in his coat pocket. After a time he rose and walked heavily down the main street of the village until he came to the house where Captain Holcomb had been put up.
The Texan was sitting on his porch smoking a pipe. Behind him, a few feet away, Cabenza was cleaning a rifle for his new master.
"I wanta talk to you about something, Captain Holcomb," announced the film actor.
The soldier looked at him steadily. "Go to it," he ordered curtly.
"This is private business."
Holcomb did not turn his head or raise his voice. "Pedro, vamos."
The feet of Cabenza could be heard hitting the dust as he vanished around the corner of the house.
Without beating around the bush Harrison came to his subject. He jerked a thumb over his right shoulder.
"It's that girl up at the house there I want to talk about."
"What about her?"
"He's got no business keeping her there. She's a straight girl."
"Is she?"
"Yes, sir. She is."
"Then why did you bring her here?" Holcomb's question was like the thrust of a sword.
"Because I was a fool."
"Better give things their right names. You were a damned villain."
A dull flush rose to the cheeks of the prizefighter. "All right. Let it go at that. I guess you're right. What I want to know now is whether you're going to stand for Pasquale's play. He's got one wife already—half a dozen, far as I know. You going to let him put this wedding farce over without a kick?"
"Can I stop it?"
"You can register a roar, can't you?"
"Would it do any good? Did yours?"
"You're different. He needs you to drill this ragged bunch of hoboes he calls an army. Pasquale has a lot of respect for you. He talked a lot about you before you came."
"If you want to know, I've already spoken to him about it."
"What did he say?"
"Gave me to understand that if I'd attend to my business he'd mind his. And I'm going to do it," concluded Holcomb with sharp decision.
"You mean you're going to lie down like a yellow dog and quit, that you'll let this wolf take that lamb and ruin her life! Is that what you mean?"
Holcomb sat forward in his chair, so that his strong, lean, sunburnt face was as close to the other man as possible. "You talk both like a coward and a fool. You brought the girl here against her will. If Pasquale had been willing to let you force her into a marriage with you, I wouldn't have heard a squeal out of you. But he butted in. He took her from you. Now you come hollering to me, you quitter. Instead of fighting it out to a finish, you run to me. Talk about yellow curs. Faugh!"
"What can I do?" exploded Harrison in a rage. "He has four men watching her room at night now. Every time I move his cursed spies follow me. There are two of them over there now. Pasquale won't even let me see him. He's aimin' to have me killed, I believe."
"Serve you right," the soldier of fortune flung at him as he rose from his chair. "Killing is none too good for your kind. Pity some one didn't stamp you out before you brought that little girl down here to this sink of perdition."
Harrison swallowed down his anger. "That's all right. I'll stand for it. If I didn't believe it myself, you'd have a heluvatime getting away with such talk. But it goes just as you lay it down. I'm a skunk and all the rest of it. Now, listen! I ain't such a four-flusher as to lay down my hand before I've played it out. See! I'mnot through with Gabriel Pasquale. Watch my smoke. Him and me hasn't come to a settlement yet."
"Sounds to me like whiskey talk," answered the Texan scornfully. "Men who do the kind of things you have done don't have the guts to play out a losing game."
"Some do, some don't. By your reputation you're game. All right. Keep your eyes open, captain."
Snarling, the man turned away and walked down the street. Holcomb watched him go. There was something purposeful in the way the heavyweight moved. Perhaps, after all, he would make a fighting finish of it. The captain fervently hoped he would drag old Pasquale down with him before they wiped him off the map. But he knew the betting odds were all the other way.
CHAPTER XXIA STAGE PREPARED FOR TRAGEDY
Not knowing when his opportunity might come, Harrison kept his horse saddled most of the time. He knew that extra mounted patrols were kept at the ends of the streets and at other points on the mesa surrounding the town, and that he would have to take a chance of being able to run the gauntlet in safety. If luck favored him, he might win past these. For one thing the Mexicans were very poor shots, a little the worst he had ever seen. It might be, too, that he would have darkness in his favor, though he could not count on this.
By Enrique he had sent to Governor Farrugia a map of the camp, giving detailed information as to the number and position of the troops and showing from what direction the camp could best be attacked. In his letter he had urged immediate action, on the ground that a part of the men were absent with Major Ochampa on a foraging expedition. If Farrugia rose to the occasion, he hoped in the confusion of the assault to escape with Ruth.
Meanwhile he waited, and the hours slippedaway. It was now Friday noon, and the wedding was to be Saturday morning.
Four denim-clad troopers and a sergeant marched raggedly down the street and stopped in front of Harrison's adobe house.
"The general wishes to see the señor," explained the sergeant.
The American knew the crucial hour had come. This was the first move of Pasquale in the programme to destroy him. He made no protest, but stepped forward at once, leading his horse by the bridle. The sergeant was a little dubious about the horse, but his orders did not cover the point and he made no objection.
Pasquale was standing in front of his house on the porch, bow legs wide apart and hands crossed behind his back. Harrison stopped directly in front of him. The soldiers moved back a dozen yards.
"Well," demanded the heavyweight.
"I sent for you to explain something to me, sir," said the Mexican general harshly.
"What is it?"
"This letter and map."
Pasquale stepped forward, handed two papers to Harrison, and quickly stepped back till his back was against the wall of the house. Something in his manner stirred the banked suspicions of the American. Already his nerves were keyedto unusual tension, for he knew the moment of crux was hurrying toward him. Why had the troopers fallen back so far? Why was Pasquale so anxious to put a wide space between himself and his prisoner?
The eyes of the film actor, clouded with doubt of what was about to take place, fell to the papers in his hand. He was looking at the letter and the map he had sent to Governor Farrugia.
Instantly his mind was made up. But as the blue barrel of his revolver flashed into sight there came the simultaneous roar of a volley. The force of it seemed to lift Harrison from his feet. Before his sagging knees had touched the dust the man was dead.
Pasquale drew a forty-five and fired three times into the lax and huddled body. He nodded to the men in the smoke-filled windows upstairs.
"Come down and bury this Gringo dog's body," he ordered.
They trooped down noisily. Pasquale kicked the body carelessly with his toe. "He was a traitor to the cause. The proof is in that paper. Hand it to me, Juan."
The general read the letter aloud. "He would have betrayed us all but for the patriotism of a messenger who would not be bribed. The man deserved death. Not so?"
They shouted approval and added, "Viva Pasquale!" in an enthusiastic roar. Ramon Culvera, who had just arrived on the scene, led the cheering with much vigor.
From every house men, boys, and women poured. The streets filled with noisy patriots. Guns popped here and there to ventilate the energy of their owners. Troopers galloped up and down the road in clouds of dust shooting into the air as they rode. Boys who would have run their legs off to obey a whim of Harrison spat contemptuously upon the face of the "Gringo cabrone."
Drawn by the hubbub, Captain Holcomb hurried from his house. He looked down at the lifeless body four soldiers were carrying away and turned to Pasquale for an explanation.
The general handed him the papers that proved Harrison's guilt. "I have executed a traitor, captain. The dog would have sold us out to Farrugia. Is his punishment not just?"
Holcomb looked the papers over and handed them back to his chief. "He got what was coming to him," he answered quietly.
"I have witnesses to show that he was drawing his revolver to assassinate me at the very moment he was shot. My men were just in time."
"It was fortunate for you your men happenedto be so handy," replied the American officer with just a suggestion of dryness.
For Holcomb knew, just as Yeager did, that the scene had been set by Pasquale for the killing. His men had been stationed in the windows above, unknown to the victim. The heavyweight had been tempted to reach for his weapon by the certainty that he had come to the end of the passage. Doing so, he had given the signal for his own death. Had he failed to do this, the Mexican general would have sprung the trap himself in another minute. Fortunately this had not been necessary. Pasquale was in a position to prove to the United States Government, in case it became inquisitive, that when the man had been confronted with his guilt he had tried to kill him and had been shot down red-handed.
Half an hour later Holcomb came into his house and found Steve cleaning a pair of revolvers. The captain tossed his hat on the bed and sat down.
"Up to us, looks like," he commented.
Yeager nodded silently.
"Harrison hadn't a look-in. The old scoundrel had the cards stacked," continued the officer.
"Yep. Chad sat in against a cold deck. He made a big mistake when he let the old man take the play."
"Everything fixed for to-night?"
"Far as it can be. We've just got to take a big chance and trust to luck being with us," answered Steve.
"Guess you'll have to make your own luck. I spoke to Pasquale about a game here to-night. He grabbed at the bait. Said he would bring Culvera and Ochampa. I'll make a long session of it so as to give you all the time you need."
"Better have a boy here to serve the liquor and cigars. If you should hear shooting, and Gabriel gets anxious about it, you can send the boy to find out what it's about. That will give us a few minutes more to get away."
"Sure your dope is strong enough?"
"The man who fixed it ought to know. He's a registered druggist at Phœnix," replied the range-rider.
Yeager had never before sat in the anxious seat as nervously as he did during the next few hours. His nature was not of the kind to borrow trouble. Usually he could accept responsibility without letting it worry him. But to-night he was playing for big stakes—his own life certainly was in the hazard, probably those of Farrar and Threewit, possibly that of the Texan. And what weighed with him more than all these was the fate of the young girl in the back room upstairs waitingwith a leaden heart for this dreadful thing that was to befall her. It was in the game that a man must take his fighting chance. But a girl—and above all girls Ruth—the thought of it stabbed his heart like a knife.
CHAPTER XXIIA CONSPIRACY
In settling accounts with Harrison the Mexican general had prepared the scene, had arranged every detail of it carefully so as to eliminate any possible chance the heavyweight might otherwise have. Yeager had no intention of letting Pasquale fix the conditions against him as he had against the prizefighter.
"Old Gabriel was holding four aces and Chad only a busted flush. Pasquale knew it all the time. Harrison must 'a' guessed it too. But if he did, I don't see why he waited for the old man to spring his trap," said Steve.
"It's a matter of temperament, I reckon. Some fellows are game enough when you put 'em up against trouble good and hard, but they hang back and wait for it to come to 'em. I expect Harrison didn't know how to play his hand. Looked that way to me when he talked with me. Likely he figured he had better wait and see what happened," surmised the captain.
"He waited too long."
"Till it was too late to call for a new deal. He had to play those dealt him."
"Different here. We'll do the dealing ourselves, captain. Pasquale has been through the deck and taken out all the big picture cards, but I expect I can rustle up a six-full that will come handy." Yeager smiled as he spoke at the .45 he was bestowing about his person.
Together they set the table for poker, putting on it two new decks, one blue and one red, and a box of chips that had seen service in many a midnight fray. On a side table were cigars, cigarettes, and liquor in plenty. Holcomb intended to see that his guests were properly entertained while Steve played the bigger and more dangerous game outside.
The range-rider knew that the odds were against him, that any one of fifty trifling accidents might bring to failure the plan he had made. All he could do was to make his preparations as skillfully as he could and then try to carry them out coolly and with determination.
The Mexican boy who had been hired to act as an attendant on the card-players arrived and Yeager took his leave. The captain followed him to the porch.
"Good luck, Steve," he said quietly.
"Same to you, captain. We'll talk this all over across the line in God's country some time."
"Sure," nodded Holcomb. "Well, so-long."
The younger man answered the nod casuallyand turned away down the street. Neither of them thought of shaking hands. Whatever was to happen was all in the day's work. Both of them belonged to that type of Westerner which sees a thing through without any dramatics. That this happened to be a particularly critical thing had no effect on their manner.
Holcomb lit a cigar and sat down on the porch to wait for his guests. They came presently. First were Pasquale and Ochampa, rough and ready as to clothes, unshaven, betraying continually the class from which they had risen. Culvera dropped in after a few minutes. He had discarded his uniform and was in the picturesque regalia of the young Mexican cavalier. From jingling silver spurs to the costly gold-laced sombrero he was every inch the dandy. His manners were the pink of urbanity. Nothing was lacking in particular to the affectionate deference he showed his chief. It suggested somehow the love of a son and the admiration of a devoted admirer.
The general was riding a wave of exhilaration. He had trodden down another of his enemies and was about to take to himself the spoils of the battle. Still in his vigorous prime, he was assured the stars were beckoning him to take the place in Mexico City that neither Madero nor Huerta had been strong enough to hold. He promised himself to settle down to moderation, to havedone with the wild drinking-bouts that still occasionally interfered with his efficiency. Meanwhile, to-night he was again saying farewell to his bachelor days. He drank liberally but not excessively.
Ochampa proposed the health and happiness of the bride. It was drunk with enthusiasm. The general gave them the United States, the sister republic to the north, and spoke affectingly of his desire to promote a better feeling between the countries by this marriage. The host had not expected his poker party to develop so much oratory, but he rose briefly to the occasion. The subject of his remarks was, "A United Mexico."
But it was Culvera who capped the climax. He rose, wineglass in hand, and waited impressively for silence. For five minutes his tongue flowed on in praises of the Liberator of the people. He heaped superlatives on extravagant approval after the fashion of our political orators.
"Need I put a name to this patriot and hero who has won the unbounded love and loyalty of my youth?" he asked rotundly. "Need I name the Bolivar, the Washington of Mexico, the next president of this great republic? If so, I but repeat the name that is on the lips of all the thousands of our people to whom he is as a father—Gabriel Pasquale."
Holcomb smiled behind the hand that stroked his mustache. There was nobody present whodid not know pretty accurately how far Ramon's attachment to his chief went. Gabriel himself, who embraced him affectionately in thanks, had not the least doubt. But if he had no illusions in the matter, he did not intend on that account to warn his lieutenant prematurely that he was next on the list to Harrison.
Poker presently absorbed their attention. Holcomb was the genial host, watchful of their wants and solicitous that they should be supplied. No sign of anxiety betrayed that he was keyed up to a high nervous tension. He told stories, laughed at those of the others, high spaded for drinks (though as a matter of fact he was as host furnishing the liquor), made post-mortem examinations of the deck, and otherwise showed a proper interest. It was quite necessary that when Pasquale looked back over the evening with later developments in mind he should not be able to find any intimations that his host was accessory to the plan to escape.
Hour after hour slipped away. The captain began to let himself hope that the forlorn hope of Yeager had brought safety to his friends. Surely by this time he must either have won or lost his throw for liberty.
A single shot broke the stillness of the night.
Pasquale, dealing, stopped with a card in his hand.
"Funny thing how the guns of sentries are always going off accidentally," remarked Holcomb casually. "Boy, look to the glasses of these gentlemen."
The deal was finished. Culvera opened the pot. The captain stayed. Ochampa hesitated.
One shot, a second, and then a fusillade of them shattered the quiet.
Pasquale flung down his cards and rose hurriedly, overturning his chair. "Mil diablos! What's to pay?" he cried.
The others followed him out of the room and house. He ran down the street as fast as a boy. Already men were emerging from houses half dressed. The sound of shots came from back of the general's headquarters. Pasquale doubled around the house and vaulted a fence. He butted into an excited group and flung men to right and left.
"What's the matter?" he demanded.
A soldier pointed to the open window of the room that had been occupied by Ruth Seymour. "She's gone, Your Excellency."
"Gone! Gone where?" roared Gabriel.
"Heaven knows. Her friends have rescued her."
Pasquale broke into a storm of curses.