CHAPTER XXIIITRAPPED
After leaving Holcomb, Yeager walked down to the river-bed, followed the bank for a couple of hundred yards, and crept forward on all fours through the alfalfa pasture to the barb-wire fence that paralleled the road at some distance. He crawled beneath the lowest wire and moved through the mesquite to a point from which he could see the building where Farrar and Threewit were held prisoners. Two guards with rifles across their shoulders paced up and down outside.
Here Steve lay motionless for about half an hour. He believed that before the poker game began some one of the party would drop around to see that all was quiet and regular in the camp. His guess was a good one. Pasquale himself, arm in arm with Ochampa, made the rounds and stopped for a moment to speak to the sentries in front of the prison. The man crouched in the bear grass could tell that Gabriel was in high good-humor. He jested with the men and clapped them on the shoulder jovially. He laughed as heartily at his own witticisms as they did.
"There shall be mescal to-morrow for the whole army to drink the health of the Liberator and his bride. See to it, Ochampa," he ordered as they walked away.
"Viva Pasquale the Liberator," cried the sentries in a fine fervor of enthusiasm.
Presently the man in hiding stole quietly to the road and advanced down it at a leisurely pace.
"Promising them mescal, eh?" he murmured. "Well, I'll bet a bird in the hand is worth twenty or most sixteen in the bush." He patted affectionately a bottle that lay snug in his pocket.
"Who goes?" demanded one of the prison guards as he approached.
"Pedro Cabenza."
Steve chatted with them for a few moments before he produced his bird in the hand. They told him of what Pasquale had promised. Slyly he looked around to see that they were alone and drew from his pocket the bottle.
"Ho, compañero! Behold what I have. Gringo whiskey—better far than mescal," he cried softly as he handed the treasure to one of the guards.
The man glanced around hurriedly, even as had Cabenza, then tilted the mouth of the bottle over his lips and let a long stiff drink gurgle down his throat. He patted his fat paunch contentedlyand handed the bottle to his companion. The second guard also drank deeply.
Cabenza put an arm across the shoulders of each and drew their heads close while he whispered confidential scandal about Pasquale and Ramon Culvera. The two men listened greedily, eager for more. It happened that there was no truth in the salacious tidbits which Pedro retailed, but he invented glibly and that did just as well.
The heads of his listeners began to nod. They murmured drowsy interjections and leaned more heavily upon his arms. Ineffectually they tried to shake off the lassitude that was creeping over their senses.
"Keep watch, brother, while I take just forty winks," begged one, and fairly thrust his rifle into the hand of Yeager.
The soldier staggered to the adobe wall and slumped down beside the door. His eyes closed, fluttered open again, shut a second time. They did not open. He was fast asleep.
The second guard sat down beside him and smiled up sleepily at the standing man. "Manuel sleeps on duty. He is—a fool. I do—not—sleep. No, I—I—"
His head drooped on his chest. Steve took the rifle that fell from his relaxed hand.
Instantly the American was tapping gently onthe door. "Threewit—Farrar!" he called softly. "This is Steve."
There was the sound of quick footsteps. A voice within answered in a whisper.
"Yes, Steve. This is Frank."
From his pocket the range-rider took a bunch of skeleton keys. It was no trouble to find one that would unlock the door, but in addition to this fastening there was a padlock. With a hatchet which he had brought Yeager pried the staple out. In another moment the door was open.
"Help me drag these fellows inside," ordered the cowpuncher, taking command promptly. "Frank, tear one of those blankets into strips. We've got to tie their hands and feet and gag them. Shuck your coat, Threewit. You've got to wear this fellow's blouse and sombrero. You, too, Frank. It's Manuel's castaways for you. Move lively, boys. This is surely going to be our busy evening."
"What's the programme?" asked Farrar, doing what he was told to do.
Steve explained briefly. "Old Pasquale has got Ruth Seymour here at his house. He intends to marry her to-morrow. I don't mean he shall. A good friend of mine is entertaining the old scoundrel to-night and some of the other high moguls in camp. My notion is to slip into old Gabriel's headquarters and rescue Ruth."
"Has Ruth been here ever since she came down with Harrison that time he lied to her about you being wounded?" asked Threewit. "We were told you butted in and took her home."
"I did. Harrison went to Los Robles later and brought her by force. He was looking for me and bumped into her by chance. His idea was to marry her as soon as they reached camp. But Pasquale balked. He took a fancy to Ruth himself."
While Yeager talked his fingers were busy every moment. From long usage he was expert at roping and tying. Many a time he had thrown the diamond hitch while packing on mountain trails. His skill served him well now. He trussed the guards as if they had been packs for the saddle, binding them hand and feet so that they could not move.
"We heard that an American had been killed in camp to-day. We've been worried for fear it might have been you, Steve," said the camera man.
"It was Harrison. He tried to sell Pasquale out to Farrugia and the old fox got his letter. Pasquale accused him of his treachery and had him assassinated on the spot. Better pull that sombrero lower over your face, Threewit. And keep your hands out of the light as much as you can. They're too white for this section of the country."
"What if some one talks to me? I can't put over their lingo."
"Just grunt. I'll do what talking is necessary. All right. We'll make tracks, boys."
They stepped outside. Yeager relocked the door and drove the staple back into the wood with the end of his rifle by steady pressure and not by blows.
Steve led them through the bear grass into the pasture and across it to the river-bank. Here, under the heavy shadows of the overhanging cottonwoods, he outlined his plans.
Threewit spoke aloud his fears. "But, good Lord! what chance have we got? It's a cinch we can't put four more guards out of business without being seen. And if we are caught—" His voice failed him.
The cowpuncher looked at him, and then at Farrar. The camera man was pale, but his eyes met those of his friend steadily. Steve judged he would do to tie to, that his nerve would pull him through. But the director was plainly shaken with fears. He was not a coward, but the privations and anxieties of the past ten days had got on his nerves. His lips twitched and his fat hand trembled. His life had fallen in too soft and easy places for this sort of thing.
The cowboy reassured him gently, even as he rearranged his plans on the spot. "We're going to pull it off, but as you say there is a chance wewon't make it. I'm going to leave you in the corral with the horses. If Frank and I should slip up and get caught you'll still have a chance to get away."
"I'm going through with it just the same as you boys," insisted the director shakily.
"You're going to do as I say, Threewit. I'm elected boss of this rodeo. One of us has got to stay by the horses to make sure they're ready when we need 'em. That's going to be you. You're to sit right steady on the job till we come. If you hear shooting,—and if we don't show up in a reasonable time after that,—light out and save your hide. Keep that star—see, the bright one close down to the horizon—keep it right in front of you all night. By daybreak you ought to be across the line."
"I'm not going to ride away and leave you boys and Ruth here. What do you take me for?" demanded Threewit huskily.
Steve put a hand on the shoulder of the little man. "You're all right, Billie," he said, with the affectionate smile that men as well as women loved. "We all know you'll do to take along any time when we need a man that's on the level. You wait there at the corral. If we show up, good. If we don't—well, we'll be beyond help. There'll be nothing left for you to do but burn the wind."
Frank swallowed hard. "What Steve says goes with me, Billie."
"Good." Yeager turned briskly to the business in hand. "We might as well be on our way, boys. There's no hurry, because I want Pasquale and Culvera to get settled at their game. But I reckon we'll drift along easy like."
They waded the river, which at its deepest did not reach to their calves, and scrambled up the opposite bank to a bench of shale. Yeager, after a short search, found hidden under the foliage of a prickly pear the rope he had left there some hours earlier. They were in a large fenced pasture where were kept the horses of the officers. At one end could be seen dimly the outline of a little corral.
"You boys head across that way and wait for me. The remuda is at the other end of the pasture under the care of a boy," explained the cowpuncher.
"Hadn't I better go along with you in case of trouble?" asked Farrar.
"There isn't going to be any trouble. I'm getting the horses for Pasquale. See?"
After the others had left him, Steve lit a cigarette and sauntered to the far end of the field. Presently he gave a call that brought an answer. The horses were grazing in a loose herd that coveredperhaps a third of an acre. From behind them emerged a youth on horseback.
"I want four horses in a hurry," announced the range-rider.
"What for?"
"Never mind what for, compadre. I didn't ask old Gabriel what for when he sent me," grumbled the messenger.
"Why didn't you say for Pasquale?" The young man was preparing his rope swiftly and efficiently. "Did the general say what horses?"
"He named the roan with the white stockings and the white-nosed buckskin."
"Then he's going to travel fast and far. Why, in the devil's name, since he is going to be married in the morning?"
"Why does the general always do what isn't expected? The saints know. I don't," growled Steve.
Both of them were expert ropers. In five minutes the American was swallowed in the darkness. He was astride the bare back of the buckskin and was leading the other ponies. As soon as he knew he was safely out of sight and hearing, he deflected toward the corral.
His friends were waiting for him anxiously. Steve dropped lightly to the ground.
"Hold the horses a minute, Frank," he said.
Striding to a feed-stall filled with alfalfa, hetossed the hay aside and dragged to the light a saddle. Presently he uncovered a second, a third, and a fourth.
"Brought them here last night—stole them from the storehouse," he explained casually.
"You didn't overlook any bets—thought of everything, even to saddle-blankets and water-bags already full," contributed Farrar, digging up these supplies from the alfalfa.
Steve cinched the saddles himself, though Farrar was a fair horseman. If it came to a pinch the turning of a saddle might spoil everything, and so far as he could the range-rider was forestalling any accidents that might be due to carelessness.
"How long am I to wait for you?" asked Threewit.
"We'd ought to be back inside of an hour and a half—if luck's with us. But we may be delayed by some one hanging around. Give us two hours or even two and a half—unless hell begins to pop." Steve looked at his watch in the moonlight. "Say till twelve o'clock. Of course, when you go, you'll leave the other horses here on the chance that we come later. You'd better ride that round-bellied bay."
"Am I to follow the star right up the hill?"
"No. Better take the draw. The sentinels will be on the hill. Likely they'll see you and shootat you. But don't stop, even if they're close. Keep a-going. They can't hit a barn door."
"Neither can I," lamented the director.
"Then you'll all be safe." Yeager turned to Farrar. "Come on, Frank."
The two crossed the pasture to the river and waded through the shallow stream to the other side. They remained in the shadows of the bank, following the bend of the river as it circled the village. Through the cottonwoods they crept toward the rear of the two-story house where Pasquale lived and Ruth was held prisoner.
From a sandy spot at the foot of a cotton wood tree Yeager dug a rope ladder.
"Been making it while I was night-herding the remuda," he told Farrar in answer to a surprised question.
"Beats me you didn't make an auto for us to get away in," answered his admiring friend with a grin.
"Wait here," whispered Steve. "I'm going forward to look the ground over. Keep your eyes open in case I give a signal."
The range-rider snaked his way toward the house, moving so slowly and noiselessly that Farrar lost sight of him entirely and began to wonder where he had gone. It must have been nearly twenty minutes later that he caught a glimpse of him without his rifle. Yeager wasengaged in confidential talk with a guard in uniform. Frank saw the bottle pass from his friend to the Mexican, who took a pull at it. A second guard joined the two presently. He also took a drink.
The three disappeared together into the shadowy darkness of the house wall. Farrar was wondering what had happened when a single figure emerged into the moonlight and made a signal for him to come forward.
Yeager did not wait for him, but climbed up the post of the back porch as he had done once before. The camera man was on hand by the time Steve reached the roof. He looked up silently while his friend reached across and rapped on the window of a lighted room. The sash was raised very gently.
Ruth leaned out. "Is it you, Steve?" Her voice was tremulous and tearful. It was a safe guess she had been sobbing her misery into a pillow.
"Yes."
He caught hold of the edge of the window and swung across, working himself up and in by sheer power of muscle. Rapidly he fastened the end of the rope ladder to the head of the bed, which he first half lifted and half dragged to the window. The rest of the ladder he threw out.
"Ready, Ruth?" he asked, turning to her.
She nodded. He was offering his arm to help her through the window when a frightened call came from below.
"Steve!"
He looked down. A Mexican trooper, one of those set to guard the front of the house, was approaching. A glance was enough to show that he knew something to be wrong. His startled eyes passed from Farrar to the rope ladder. They followed it from the ground to the window. He stopped, almost under the window. The camera man, taken aback, did not know what to do. Was he to run the risk of a shot? Even while he hesitated the man in uniform reached for a revolver.
Yeager knew what to do, and he did it promptly. Sweeping Ruth back from the window, he clambered through himself and poised his body for the leap. The sentry looked up again, saw what was about to happen, and let out a startled scream at the same instant that he flung up an arm and fired. Steve felt a sharp sting in his leg as he descended through the air. He landed astride on the shoulders of the Mexican. The man went to earth, hammered down so hard that the breath was driven from his body.
The arm of the range-rider rose and fell once. In his hand was the blue barrel of a revolver. The corrugated butt of the .45 had crashed intothe thick matted hair of the Mexican. But it had done its work. Yeager rose quickly. The soldier lay still.
Already Ruth was coming down the swaying ladder. She dropped the last few rounds with a rush, plump into the arms of Steve.
"Let us hurry—hurry," she cried.
It was time to be gone, if not too late. Already men were converging upon them from different sides. Others were bawling orders for soldiers to turn out.
Steve went down almost as quickly as he had risen. His leg had given way unexpectedly.
Before he reached his feet again his revolver was out and doing business.
"Fire at their legs, Frank. All we want to do is to stop them. Ruth, you run ahead, straight for the trees. We'll be with you in a minute," Yeager gave orders quietly.
The girl flashed one look at him, found assurance in his strong, lean face, and obeyed without a word.
Farrar's rifle was already scattering bullets rather wildly into the night. Lead spattered against the adobe wall behind them. But the attackers were checked. Their fire was of a desultory character. There was such a thing as being too impetuous. Who were these men they were assailing? Perhaps they were acting underorders of Pasquale. Better not be too rash. So the mind of the peon soldiers decided.
As soon as Ruth had reached the shelter of the grove her friends moved to join her. They were halfway across the open when the cowpuncher plunged to the ground again.
The camera man turned and ran back to him. "What is it, Steve? Have they hit you?" he asked anxiously.
"Plugged a pill into my laig as I took the elevator down from the second story. Gimme a hand up."
Frank put an arm around his waist as a support and they reached cover just as the leg failed for a third time. Yeager crawled forward a few yards on his knees into the underbrush.
Soft arms slid around his neck and shoulder as someone plumped down beside him.
"You're wounded. You've been shot," Ruth breathed tremulously.
"Yes," assented Yeager. "Hand me your rifle, Frank."
They exchanged weapons. Steve had already made up his mind exactly what was best to do.
"I'm going to stay here awhile and hold them back. You go on with Ruth, Frank. Leave a horse for me. I'll be along later," he explained.
"We're not going away to leave you here," protested Ruth indignantly.
His voice was so matter of fact and his manner so competent that she had already drawn back, half ashamed, from the caressing support to which her feelings had driven her.
He turned on her eyes cool and steely. "You're going to do as I say, girl. You're wasting time for all of us every moment you stay. Take her, Frank."
Farrar spoke in a low voice of troubled doubt. "But what are you going to do, Steve? We can't leave you here."
The bullets of the Mexicans were searching the grove for them. Any moment one might find a mark.
The range-rider made a gesture of angry impatience. "You obey orders fine, don't you?" His face flashed sudden anger. "Get out. I know my plans, don't I? Pull your freight. Vamos!"
"And you'll be along later, will you?"
"Of course I will. I've got it all arranged. Hurry, or it will be too late."
Ruth half guessed his purpose. She began to sob, but let herself be hurried away by Farrar.
"He's going to stay there. He's not coming at all," she wailed as she ran.
"Sho! Of course he's coming. You know Steve, don't you? He's always got something good up his sleeve."
But though her friend reassured her, he could not still his own fears. Something in him cried out against the desertion of a wounded ally, one who had risked his life to save them all. Still, there was the girl to be considered. If Yeager wanted to give his life for hers he had the right. Many a good man of the Southwest would have done what Steve was doing, given the same circumstances. It was up to him, Farrar, to back his friend's play and see it through.
Yeager crawled on his hands and knees into a mesquite thicket from which he could command a view of the open space back of Pasquale's house. He broke carefully half a dozen twigs that interfered with the free play of his rifle. Then he placed his revolver beside him ready for action. After which he waited, tense and watchful.
Mexicans were swarming about the back of the house. One climbed the rope ladder, looked in the window, and explained with much gesturing to those below that the room was empty. Random shots were thrown toward the river and into the grove. But nobody headed the pursuit. They were waiting for a leader.
Then Pasquale burst furiously into sight around the house. Culvera, Ochampa, and Holcomb followed him. The general flung himself into an excited group, tossing to right and left those who were in his way. He snapped outquestions, gave orders, and stamped over the ground like a madman.
Called by Culvera, he strode forward to one of the drugged guards. In an impotent fury he shook the man, trying to waken him from his sleep; then, raging at his failure, he flung the helpless body against the wall and turned on his heel.
Order began to evolve out of the mob. Pasquale himself organized the pursuit. He spread the line out so that as it advanced it would sweep the whole space to the river. There was no longer any wild firing. Men brought from the stables eight or ten horses for the officers.
As the line moved forward, Yeager thought it time to let the enemy know where he was. He drew a bead on the general, moved his rifle slightly to the left, and fired. Pasquale drew his sword and waved it.
"Take the girl alive. Shoot down the traitor dogs with her," he cried savagely. "One hundred pesos to the man who kills either of them or captures her."
Steve answered this by firing twice, once with his revolver and almost immediately afterward with his rifle. Ochampa sat down suddenly. He had been hit in the leg.
CHAPTER XXIVTHE PRISONER
Pasquale changed his tactics. Having located his prey with fair accuracy, he spread his men so as to converge upon the fugitives as the spokes of a wheel do toward the hub. His instructions were that the men were not to fire unless they were within close enough range to be sure not to hit the girl.
His courage had been tested often enough to be beyond doubt, so Gabriel contented himself with waiting behind his horse for the captives to be brought to him. He had no intention of being killed in a skirmish of this kind as long as he had peons to send forward in his place.
"Bet five dollars gold I have them inside of a quarter of an hour, captain," the Mexican general said, peering across his saddle toward the grove.
"Yes," assented Major Ochampa in a depressed voice. He objected to having camp vagrants take liberties with his leg. "Hope you make an example of them, general."
Pasquale turned, his eyes like cold lights on a frosty night. "They'll pray for death a hundredtimes before it comes to them," he promised brutally. Then, with quick surprise, "Where's Holcomb?"
"He went forward with the men."
"Just like him," replied Gabriel, shrugging his shoulders. "The madman must always be in the thick of it. It's the Gringo way."
From his mesquite thicket Yeager kept up as rapid a fire as possible, using rifle and revolver alternately so as to deceive the enemy into believing the whole party was there. His object was merely to gain time for his escaping friends. Ochampa had been wounded as an object lesson, but he did not intend to kill any of those who were surrounding him. If there had been a dozen of them he would have fought it out to a finish, but with one against a thousand he felt it would be useless murder to kill.
Steve fired into the air, knowing that would do just as well to delay the attackers. Each time he fired his revolver he called aloud softly to himself the number of the shot. It was essential to his plan that there should be one bullet left the moment before they took him.
He could hear them stumbling toward him through the brush and could make out the dark figures as they crawled forward.
"Four," he counted as he fired his revolver into the air and cut off a twig.
His rifle sang out twice. He waited, listening. Bushes crackled a few yards behind him. Snatching up his revolver, he turned.
"Don't fire, Steve," said a low voice in perfectly good English.
Holcomb came out of the thicket toward him.
"Hello, captain. Nice large warm evening. You out taking the air?" asked the cowpuncher.
"Did the rest get away?"
"Hope so. I had rotten luck. One of the guards plugged me in the leg, so I thought I'd kinder keep the Legion busy while our friends make their getaway."
"Can't you run?"
"Can't even walk." Yeager raised the revolver and fired. "Five. One left now."
His eye met that of the captain. Each of them understood perfectly.
"That first shot of yours just missed Pasquale. Pity you didn't shoot straighter."
"I had a dead beat on the old scamp, but I didn't want him. If Ruth gets away, that's all I ask. He's all kinds of a wolf, but Mexico needs him, I reckon."
"You're right about that, Steve. It wouldn't have done you any good to lay him out. Here they come."
A man ploughed through the brush towardthem. Another appeared to the left. The face of a third peered around the trunk of an adjacent cottonwood. Of a sudden the grove seemed alive with them.
Raising his gun, Steve nodded farewell to his friend.
A moment before Holcomb had had no intention of interfering, but an impulse that was almost an inspiration gave springs to his muscles. He leaped.
The fling of his arm sent the shot flying wildly into the night. Yeager turned on him furiously as he picked himself up to his knees.
"What did you do that for?"
"I don't know—had no intention of it a moment before. Maybe I've done you a bad turn, Steve. It came over me as a hunch that you were coming out of this all right."
"The devil it did. Gimme your gun. Quick!"
It was too late. The Mexicans were closing with him. They flung him down and pegged him to the ground with their weight. He made no attempt to struggle.
"Get off of him. He's my prisoner," roared Holcomb, flinging one of the Mexicans back.
They poured on him a flood of protesting Spanish. They had taken him while he was still at large. The reward was theirs.
"Confound the reward. You may have it, butthe man belongs to me. Get up. He's wounded. Two of you will have to carry him."
"But if he tries to escape, señor—"
"Don't be a fool," snapped Holcomb curtly.
The captain was troubled in his heart. Had he saved this fine young fellow to be the plaything of old Pasquale's vengeance? He knew well enough what would happen to the Arizonian if Ruth escaped. But as long as there was life there was a chance. Something might turn up yet to save him.
When Pasquale found that only an insignificant peon Pedro Cabenza had been taken in his dragnet, he exploded with fury. He ordered the man shot against the nearest wall at once.
Culvera turned the prisoner so that the moon fell full upon his face. He looked searchingly at him. Yeager knew that he was discovered. He spoke in English.
"Good-evening, Colonel Culvera. You've guessed right, but you've guessed it a little too late."
"What is this? Who is this man?" demanded Pasquale harshly.
"The man Yeager, who escaped from you two weeks since," explained Ramon. "He has been in camp with us over a week arranging this girl's escape."
The old general let out a bellow of rage. Hestrode forward to make sure for himself. Roughly he seized his prisoner by the hair of the head and twisted the face toward him.
"Sorry I had to leave you so abruptly last time, general. Did you have a pleasant night?" taunted Yeager.
Gabriel choked. He was beyond words.
"I see you haven't been able to get anybody else to assassinate your friend Culvera yet," he said pleasantly.
The American had given up hope of life. He was trying to spur Pasquale into such an uncontrollable anger that his death would be a swift and easy one.
"Tie him hand and foot. Let a dozen men armed with rifles stay in the room with him till I return. Ochampa, I hold you responsible. If he escapes—"
"He won't escape," answered the major. "I'll see to that myself."
"See that you do." Pasquale swung to the saddle and looked around. "Ramon, you're not a fool. Where shall we look for this girl and those with her?" he demanded, scowling.
"They must have horses to escape, general. Except in the stable here, which is guarded heavily, the nearest are across the river in the direction they must be moving."
"Of course. Juan, have the remuda driven upand let every man saddle his horse. We'll comb these hills if we must. Maldito! She shan't escape me."
He galloped off at the head of his troop, taking the short cut to the pasture.
The prisoner was dragged into the house where Ochampa was staying. A doctor presently arrived and took care of the wounded leg of the major. After he had finished dressing it, he turned to Yeager.
"No use bothering with mine. I'll have worse wounds soon," the man from Arizona told him calmly.
The little doctor smiled genially because his heart was good. "Quien sabe, señor? Yet it is my duty," he reminded his patient gently.
"Old Gabriel might not say so," demurred Steve.
Yet he conceded the point and let the surgeon minister to him. There was no anaesthetic. The patient had to set his teeth and bear the pain while the bullet was removed and the wound washed and dressed. Little beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead. The lean muscles of his cheeks stood out like ropes. But no sound escaped his lips.
"You are a brave man," said the doctor when he had finished. "I wish you good fortune, sir."
A faint smile rested in the eyes of the cowpuncher."I'm right likely to have it, don't you think?" he asked ironically.
Whether Ochampa suspected Holcomb of being in collusion with his countryman or was merely taking no chances, the prisoner had no way of telling. But the major refused flatly to let the artillery officer into the room.
"Tell him he can see the man after the general returns—if the general wants him to see him," he told the messenger.
They could hear the voice of Holcomb, angry and insistent, protesting against such treatment. But a file of soldiers stood between him and the room. He had to retire defeated.
Slate-colored dawn rolled up without the return of Pasquale. With every passing hour Steve gathered hope. It was certain that Ruth and her friends had escaped through the lines or they must have been brought back long ago. And if they once reached the hills and became lost among them, they would surely be safe from pursuit.
The prisoner was drinking a cup of coffee the doctor had brought him when the sound of horses' hoofs came to him through the open window.
The voice of Pasquale rang out, and at the sound of it Steve's heart grew chill. For there was in the timbre of it a brutal, jovial triumph.
"Take these horses, boys,—feed them, waterthem. Let the girl go to her room, Ramon, but see that she is watched every minute. Garcia, attend to the Gringos."
He strode into the room where Yeager was detained. His greedy little eyes sparkled; his face exuded malice and self-conceit.
"Ho, ho, amigo! Who laughs now?" he jeered. "I found your friends—stumbled on them in a pocket of the hills while we were returning. They had lost their way, of course, since Señor Yeager was unfortunately not able to go along. So I brought them home to breakfast. Was I not kind?"
He threw back his head and laughed. Steve said nothing. His heart was sick. He had thrown the dice for his great chance and lost.
"First, to breakfast," repeated the Mexican. "And afterward—the young lady shall have love. Por Dios, you shall be at the wedding," decided Pasquale on malicious impulse, hammering on the table with his great fist.
"If I had only had the sense to pull the trigger last night when I had you at my mercy," Yeager commented aloud.
"Yes, you and all her friends—you shall all be there to wish her joy—even Holcomb, who wearies me with his protests. Maldito! Is Gabriel Pasquale not good enough for a kitchen wench from Arizona?"
"It's an outrage beyond belief."
"And afterward—while the little chatita makes love to Gabriel—her friend Steve whom she loves will suffer his punishment with what fortitude he can."
"And her other friends?"
"Behold, it is a great day, señor. Not so? If the chatita, linda de mi alma (pugnosed one, pretty creature of my love), asks for their freedom, she shall have it. I, Gabriel, will send them home under safe escort. Am I not generous? A kind lover? Not so?"
Steve turned his head away and looked through the window at the sun rising behind the distant hills. There was nothing to be said.
CHAPTER XXVTHE TEXAN TAKES A LONG JOURNEY
Pasquale was as good as his word. He arranged that Yeager should see the function from first to last. The wounded man, his hands tied behind his back, heavily guarded, was in the front row of the crowd which lined the short walk between the headquarters of the general and the little adobe church. The petty officer in command told him that after the bridal procession had passed he was to be taken into the balcony of the church for the ceremony.
"And afterward, while Gabriel makes love to the muchacha, the Gringo Yeager will learn what it means to displease the Liberator," promised the brown man with a twinkle of cruel little eyes.
Steve gave no sign that he heard. He understood perfectly that the ingenuity of Pasquale would make the day one long succession of tortures for him. It was up to him to mask his face and manner with the stoicism of an Apache.
At a little distance he saw Farrar and Threewit, both of them very anxious and pale. He would have called a greeting to them except that he was afraid it might prejudice their chances.
Captain Holcomb passed in front of him and stopped.
"Mornin', Steve," he said.
"Mornin', captain." The haggard eyes of the cowpuncher asked a question before his lips framed it. "Can't you do anything for the little girl? Has this hellish thing got to go through?"
"The prisoner will keep silent," snapped the Mexican sergeant.
Holcomb looked at the man with eyes of chill authority. "When I speak to the prisoner he answers. Understand?"
"Si, señor," muttered the sergeant, taken aback. "But the general said—"
"Forget it," cut in the Texan crisply. He turned to Yeager and spoke deliberately, looking straight at him. "Pasquale is going through with this thing. Just as sure as the old reprobate is alive the padre will marry your little friend to him within half an hour."
Was Captain Holcomb giving him a message? Steve did not know. It seemed to him that there was some hidden meaning in the long look of the steady eyes.
The soldier nodded curtly and turned away. The Texan was dressed with unusual care. He was wearing tanned boots newly polished and the trim khaki uniform of an officer of the United States Army. Looking at him, Yeager thought hehad never seen a finer figure of a man. He carried himself with the light firmness of a trained soldier.
The cowpuncher was puzzled. Had Holcomb an ace up his sleeve? If so, what could it be? He had said that the marriage would be pushed throughjust as sure as Pasquale was alive. Had there been the slightest emphasis on that part of the sentence? Steve was not certain. It had struck him that the captain's soft voice had lingered on the words, but that might have been fancy. Yet he could not escape the feeling that something tragic was impending.
The chattering of the peons crowded in the road died away as if at a signal. From the other end of the line rose a shout. "Viva Pasquale! Viva Pasquale!"
Troopers pushed through and opened up a lane.
The general was for once in full uniform. Evidently he had just come from the hands of a barber. His fierce mustache and eyebrows had been trimmed and subdued. He smiled broadly as he bowed to the plaudits of his men.
Then he turned and Steve caught sight of the bride. Colorless to the lips, she trembled as she moved forward, her eyes on the ground.
It was as if some bell rang within her to tell of the presence of her lover. Ruth raised her bigsad eyes and they met those of Steve. Her lips framed his name soundlessly. She seemed to lean toward him, straining from Pasquale, whose arm supported her.
Somehow she broke free and flung herself toward the man she loved. Her arms fastened around his neck. With a shivering sob she clung tightly to him.
Pasquale, his eyes stabbing with brutal rage, dragged her back and held her wrist in his sinewy brown hand. His teeth were clenched, the veins in his temples swollen. He glared at the cowpuncher as if he would like to murder him on the spot.
The padre touched Gabriel on the arm. With a start the Liberator came to himself. The procession moved forward again. Not a word had been spoken, but Pasquale's golden smile had vanished. The fingernails of his clenched fist bit savagely into the palm of his hand.
From the procession Culvera saluted Yeager ironically. "Buenos and adios, señor."
The man to whom he spoke did not even know the Mexican was there. His eyes and his mind were following the girl who was being driven to her doom.
From out of the crowd edging the walk a man stepped. It was Adam Holcomb. He stood directly in front of Pasquale and his bride,blocking the way. There was a strange light in his eyes. It was as if he looked from the present far into the future, as if somehow he were a god, an Olympian who held in his hand the shears of destiny.
The general, still furious, flung an angry look at him. "Well?" he demanded harshly.
"I want to ask the lady a question, general."
Impatient rage boiled out of Pasquale in an imperious gesture of his arm. "Afterward, captain. You shall ask her a hundred. Move aside."
"I'll ask it now. This wedding doesn't go on until I hear from the young lady that she is willing," he announced.
Ruth tried to run forward to him, but the iron grip of the Mexican stayed her. "Save me," she cried.
"By God! I will."
"Arrest that man," ordered Pasquale in a passion.
At the same time he pushed Ruth from him into the crowd that lined the path. The brown fingers of the Mexican chief closed upon the handle of his revolver.
"Here's where I go on a long journey," the Texan cried.
He dragged out an army forty-five. Pasquale and he fired at the same instant. The Mexican clutched at his heart and swayed back into thecrowd. Holcomb staggered, but recovered himself. He faced the other Mexican officers, tossed away his revolver, and folded his arms.
"Whenever you are ready, gentlemen," he said quietly.
Ramon Culvera was the first to recover. From his automatic revolver he flung a bullet into the straight, erect figure facing him. The others crowded forward and fired into the body as it began to sink. The Texan gave a sobbing sigh. Before his knees reached the ground he was dead.
The suddenness of the tragedy, its unexpectedness, held the crowd with suspended breath. What was to follow? Was this the beginning of a massacre? Each man looked at his neighbor. Another moment might bring forth anything.
With a bound Ramon vaulted to the saddle of a horse standing near. His sword made a half-circle of steel as it swept through the air. From where he sat he could be seen by all.
"Brothers of the Legion, patriots all, let none become excited. I have killed with my own hand the traitor who shot our beloved leader. Gabriel Pasquale is dead, but our country lives. Viva Mexico!"
The answer came from thousands of brown, upturned faces. "Viva Mexico! Viva Culvera!"
The young officer swung the sword around his head. His eyes flashed. "Gracias. Friends, Isolemnly pledge my life to the great cause of the people. Our hero is dead. We mourn him and devote ourselves anew to the principles for which he fought. Never shall I lay down this sword until I have won for you the rights of a free nation. I promise you land for all, wealth for all, freedom from tyranny. Down with all the foes of the poor."
Again the shouts rang out, this time louder and clearer. Already these simple, childlike peons were answering the call of their new master. Old Pasquale, who for years had held their lives in the hollow of his hand, lay crumpled on the ground almost forgotten. A new star was shining in their firmament.
"We shall march to Mexico, down the usurper, and distribute the stolen wealth of him and his pampered minions among the people to whom it belongs. Every Mexican shall have a house, land, cattle. He shall be the slave of none. His children shall be fed. We shall have peace and plenty. I, Ramon Culvera, swear it. Mexico for the Mexicans."
Culvera was an orator. His resonant voice stirred the emotions of this ragged mob that under the leadership of Pasquale had been hammered into an army efficient enough to defeat well-armed regulars. The men pressed closer to listen. Their primitive faces reflected the excitementthe speaker stirred in them. They interrupted with shouts and cheers.
Others among the officers had ambitions for leadership, but they knew now that Ramon had made the moment his and forestalled them. He had won the army over to him.
He spoke briefly, but he took pains to see that no other speaker followed him. The plaudits for "General Culvera" rang like sweet music in his ears. They told him that he had at a bound passed the officers who ranked him and was already in effect chief of the Army of the North.
Briefly he gave directions for the care of the body of the dead general and for the safety of the American prisoners pending a disposition of their cases. Before dismissing the army, he called an immediate conference of the officers.
Resolved to strike while the iron was hot, Culvera took charge of the meeting of officers and proposed at once the election of a general to succeed Pasquale. His associates were taken by surprise. They looked out of the windows and saw pacing up and down the armed sentries Ramon had set. They heard still an occasional distant cheer for the new leader. Given time, they might have organized an opposition. But Culvera drove them to instant decision. They faced the imperious will of a man who would stick at nothing to satisfy his ambition.
Moreover, Ramon was popular. He was of a good family, democratic in manner, never arrogant on the surface to his equals. It had been his object to make friends against the possibility of just such a contingency. Most of the officers liked, even though they did not fully trust him. They recognized that he had the necessary confidence in himself for success and also the touch of dramatic genius that may make of a soldier a public idol.
For which reasons they submitted to his domination and elected him successor of Pasquale as commander of the Legion of the North. Whereupon Ramon unburdened himself of another fiery oration of patriotism full of impossible pledges.
The newly chosen general sent an orderly out to proclaim the day a holiday and to see that mescal was served to all the men in honor of the event. After which the conference discussed the fate of the American prisoners.