Yet then the sun was shining down, a-blazing on the little town,A mile or so 'way down the track a-dancing in the sun.But somehow, as I waited there, there came a shiver in the air,“The birds are flying south,” he said. “The winter has begun.”
His companion looked up at him who quoted.
“There ain't no track,” he said, “an' that 'dobe shack don't look much like a town; but otherwise his Knibbs has got our number all right, all right. We are the birds a-flyin' south, and Flannagan was the shiver in the air. Flannagan is a reg'lar frost. Gee! but I betcha dat guy's sore.”
“Why is it, Billy,” asked Bridge, after a moment's silence, “that upon occasion you speak king's English after the manner of the boulevard, and again after that of the back alley? Sometimes you say 'that' and 'dat' in the same sentence. Your conversational clashes are numerous. Surely something or someone has cramped your original style.”
“I was born and brought up on 'dat,'” explained Billy. “SHE taught me the other line of talk. Sometimes I forget. I had about twenty years of the other and only one of hers, and twenty to one is a long shot—more apt to lose than win.”
“'She,' I take it, is PENELOPE,” mused Bridge, half to himself. “She must have been a fine girl.”
“'Fine' isn't the right word,” Billy corrected him. “If a thing's fine there may be something finer, and then something else finest. She was better than finest. She—she was—why, Bridge, I'd have to be a walking dictionary to tell you what she was.”
Bridge made no reply, and the two trudged on toward the whitewashed hut in silence for several minutes. Then Bridge broke it:
And you, my sweet Penelope, out there somewhere you wait for meWith buds of roses in your hair and kisses on your mouth.
Billy sighed and shook his head.
“There ain't no such luck for me,” he said. “She's married to another gink now.”
They came at last to the hut, upon the shady side of which they found a Mexican squatting puffing upon a cigarette, while upon the doorstep sat a woman, evidently his wife, busily engaged in the preparation of some manner of foodstuff contained in a large, shallow vessel. About them played a couple of half-naked children. A baby sprawled upon a blanket just within the doorway.
The man looked up, suspiciously, as the two approached. Bridge saluted him in fairly understandable Spanish, asking for food, and telling the man that they had money with which to pay for a little—not much, just a little.
The Mexican slowly unfolded himself and arose, motioning the strangers to follow him into the interior of the hut. The woman, at a word from her lord and master, followed them, and at his further dictation brought them frijoles and tortillas.
The price he asked was nominal; but his eyes never left Bridge's hands as the latter brought forth the money and handed it over. He appeared just a trifle disappointed when no more money than the stipulated purchase price was revealed to sight.
“Where you going?” he asked.
“We're looking for work,” explained Bridge. “We want to get jobs on one of the American ranches or mines.”
“You better go back,” warned the Mexican. “I, myself, have nothing against the Americans, senor; but there are many of my countrymen who do not like you. The Americans are all leaving. Some already have been killed by bandits. It is not safe to go farther. Pesita's men are all about here. Even Mexicans are not safe from him. No one knows whether he is for Villa or Carranza. If he finds a Villa ranchero, then Pesita cries Viva Carranza! and his men kill and rob. If, on the other hand, a neighbor of the last victim hears of it in time, and later Pesita comes to him, he assures Pesita that he is for Carranza, whereupon Pesita cries Viva Villa! and falls upon the poor unfortunate, who is lucky if he escapes with his life. But Americans! Ah, Pesita asks them no questions. He hates them all, and kills them all, whenever he can lay his hands upon them. He has sworn to rid Mexico of the gringos.”
“Wot's the Dago talkin' about?” asked Billy.
Bridge gave his companion a brief synopsis of the Mexican's conversation.
“Only the gentleman is not an Italian, Billy,” he concluded. “He's a Mexican.”
“Who said he was an Eyetalian?” demanded Byrne.
As the two Americans and the Mexican conversed within the hut there approached across the dusty flat, from the direction of the nearer hills, a party of five horsemen.
They rode rapidly, coming toward the hut from the side which had neither door nor window, so that those within had no warning of their coming. They were swarthy, ragged ruffians, fully armed, and with an equipment which suggested that they might be a part of a quasi-military organization.
Close behind the hut four of them dismounted while the fifth, remaining in his saddle, held the bridle reins of the horses of his companions. The latter crept stealthily around the outside of the building, toward the door—their carbines ready in their hands.
It was one of the little children who first discovered the presence of the newcomers. With a piercing scream she bolted into the interior and ran to cling to her mother's skirts.
Billy, Bridge, and the Mexican wheeled toward the doorway simultaneously to learn the cause of the girl's fright, and as they did so found themselves covered by four carbines in the hands of as many men.
As his eyes fell upon the faces of the intruders the countenance of the Mexican fell, while his wife dropped to the floor and embraced his knees, weeping.
“Wotinell?” ejaculated Billy Byrne. “What's doin'?”
“We seem to have been made prisoners,” suggested Bridge; “but whether by Villistas or Carranzistas I do not know.”
Their host understood his words and turned toward the two Americans.
“These are Pesita's men,” he said.
“Yes,” spoke up one of the bandits, “we are Pesita's men, and Pesita will be delighted, Miguel, to greet you, especially when he sees the sort of company you have been keeping. You know how much Pesita loves the gringos!”
“But this man does not even know us,” spoke up Bridge. “We stopped here to get a meal. He never saw us before. We are on our way to the El Orobo Rancho in search of work. We have no money and have broken no laws. Let us go our way in peace. You can gain nothing by detaining us, and as for Miguel here—that is what you called him, I believe—I think from what he said to us that he loves a gringo about as much as your revered chief seems to.”
Miguel looked his appreciation of Bridge's defense of him; but it was evident that he did not expect it to bear fruit. Nor did it. The brigand spokesman only grinned sardonically.
“You may tell all this to Pesita himself, senor,” he said. “Now come—get a move on—beat it!” The fellow had once worked in El Paso and took great pride in his “higher English” education.
As he started to herd them from the hut Billy demurred. He turned toward Bridge.
“Most of this talk gets by me,” he said. “I ain't jerry to all the Dago jabber yet, though I've copped off a little of it in the past two weeks. Put me wise to the gink's lay.”
“Elementary, Watson, elementary,” replied Bridge. “We are captured by bandits, and they are going to take us to their delightful chief who will doubtless have us shot at sunrise.”
“Bandits?” snapped Billy, with a sneer. “Youse don't call dese little runts bandits?”
“Baby bandits, Billy, baby bandits,” replied Bridge.
“An' you're goin' to stan' fer lettin' 'em pull off this rough stuff without handin' 'em a come-back?” demanded Byrne.
“We seem to be up against just that very thing,” said Bridge. “There are four carbines quite ready for us. It would mean sudden death to resist now. Later we may find an opportunity—I think we'd better act simple and wait.” He spoke in a quick, low whisper, for the spokesman of the brigands evidently understood a little English and was on the alert for any trickery.
Billy shrugged, and when their captors again urged them forward he went quietly; but the expression on his face might have perturbed the Mexicans had they known Billy Byrne of Grand Avenue better—he was smiling happily.
Miguel had two ponies in his corral. These the brigands appropriated, placing Billy upon one and Miguel and Bridge upon the other. Billy's great weight rendered it inadvisable to double him up with another rider.
As they were mounting Billy leaned toward Bridge and whispered:
“I'll get these guys, pal—watch me,” he said.
“I am with thee, William!—horse, foot, and artillery,” laughed Bridge.
“Which reminds me,” said Billy, “that I have an ace-in-the-hole—the boobs never frisked me.”
“And I am reminded,” returned Bridge, as the horses started off to the yank of hackamore ropes in the hands of the brigands who were leading them, “of a touching little thing of Service's:
Just think! Some night the stars will gleamUpon a cold gray stone,And trace a name with silver beam,And lo! 'twill be your own.”
“You're a cheerful guy,” was Billy's only comment.
PESITA was a short, stocky man with a large, dark mustache. He attired himself after his own ideas of what should constitute the uniform of a general—ideas more or less influenced and modified by the chance and caprice of fortune.
At the moment that Billy, Bridge, and Miguel were dragged into his presence his torso was enwrapped in a once resplendent coat covered with yards of gold braid. Upon his shoulders were brass epaulets such as are connected only in one's mind with the ancient chorus ladies of the light operas of fifteen or twenty years ago. Upon his legs were some rusty and ragged overalls. His feet were bare.
He scowled ferociously at the prisoners while his lieutenant narrated the thrilling facts of their capture—thrilling by embellishment.
“You are Americanos?” he asked of Bridge and Billy.
Both agreed that they were. Then Pesita turned toward Miguel.
“Where is Villa?” he asked.
“How should I know, my general?” parried Miguel. “Who am I—a poor man with a tiny rancho—to know of the movements of the great ones of the earth? I did not even know where was the great General Pesita until now I am brought into his gracious presence, to throw myself at his feet and implore that I be permitted to serve him in even the meanest of capacities.”
Pesita appeared not to hear what Miguel had said. He turned his shoulder toward the man, and addressed Billy in broken English.
“You were on your way to El Orobo Rancho, eh? Are you acquainted there?” he asked.
Billy replied that they were not—merely looking for employment upon an American-owned ranch or in an American mine.
“Why did you leave your own country?” asked Pesita. “What do you want here in Mexico?”
“Well, ol' top,” replied Billy, “you see de birds was flyin' south an' winter was in de air, an a fat-head dick from Chi was on me trail—so I ducks.”
“Ducks?” queried Pesita, mystified. “Ah, the ducks—they fly south, I see.”
“Naw, you poor simp—I blows,” explained Billy.
“Ah, yes,” agreed Pesita, not wishing to admit any ignorance of plain American even before a despised gringo. “But the large-faced dick—what might that be? I have spend much time in the States, but I do not know that.”
“I said 'fat-head dick'—dat's a fly cop,” Billy elucidated.
“It is he then that is the bird.” Pesita beamed at this evidence of his own sagacity. “He fly.”
“Flannagan ain't no bird—Flannagan's a dub.”
Bridge came to the rescue.
“My erudite friend means,” he explained, “that the police chased him out of the United States of America.”
Pesita raised his eyebrows. All was now clear to him.
“But why did he not say so?” he asked.
“He tried to,” said Bridge. “He did his best.”
“Quit yer kiddin',” admonished Billy.
A bright light suddenly burst upon Pesita. He turned upon Bridge.
“Your friend is not then an American?” he asked. “I guessed it. That is why I could not understand him. He speaks the language of the gringo less well even than I. From what country is he?”
Billy Byrne would have asserted with some show of asperity that he was nothing if not American; but Bridge was quick to see a possible loophole for escape for his friend in Pesita's belief that Billy was no gringo, and warned the latter to silence by a quick motion of his head.
“He's from 'Gran' Avenoo,'” he said. “It is not exactly in Germany; but there are a great many Germans there. My friend is a native, so he don't speak German or English either—they have a language of their own in 'Gran' Avenoo'.”
“I see,” said Pesita—“a German colony. I like the Germans—they furnish me with much ammunition and rifles. They are my very good friends. Take Miguel and the gringo away”—this to the soldiers who had brought the prisoners to him—“I will speak further with this man from Granavenoo.”
When the others had passed out of hearing Pesita addressed Billy.
“I am sorry, senor,” he said, “that you have been put to so much inconvenience. My men could not know that you were not a gringo; but I can make it all right. I will make it all right. You are a big man. The gringos have chased you from their country as they chased me. I hate them. You hate them. But enough of them. You have no business in Mexico except to seek work. I give you work. You are big. You are strong. You are like a bull. You stay with me, senor, and I make you captain. I need men what can talk some English and look like gringo. You do fine. We make much money—you and I. We make it all time while we fight to liberate my poor Mexico. When Mexico liberate we fight some more to liberate her again. The Germans they give me much money to liberate Mexico, and—there are other ways of getting much money when one is riding around through rich country with soldiers liberating his poor, bleeding country. Sabe?”
“Yep, I guess I savvy,” said Billy, “an' it listens all right to me's far's you've gone. My pal in on it?”
“Eh?”
“You make my frien' a captain, too?”
Pesita held up his hands and rolled his eyes in holy horror. Take a gringo into his band? It was unthinkable.
“He shot,” he cried. “I swear to kill all gringo. I become savior of my country. I rid her of all Americanos.”
“Nix on the captain stuff fer me, then,” said Billy, firmly. “That guy's a right one. If any big stiff thinks he can croak little ol' Bridge while Billy Byrne's aroun' he's got anudder t'ink comin'. Why, me an' him's just like brudders.”
“You like this gringo?” asked Pesita.
“You bet,” cried Billy.
Pesita thought for several minutes. In his mind was a scheme which required the help of just such an individual as this stranger—someone who was utterly unknown in the surrounding country and whose presence in a town could not by any stretch of the imagination be connected in any way with the bandit, Pesita.
“I tell you,” he said. “I let your friend go. I send him under safe escort to El Orobo Rancho. Maybe he help us there after a while. If you stay I let him go. Otherwise I shoot you both with Miguel.”
“Wot you got it in for Mig fer?” asked Billy. “He's a harmless sort o' guy.”
“He Villista. Villista with gringos run Mexico—gringos and the church. Just like Huerta would have done it if they'd given him a chance, only Huerta more for church than for gringos.”
“Aw, let the poor boob go,” urged Billy, “an' I'll come along wit you. Why he's got a wife an' kids—you wouldn't want to leave them without no one to look after them in this God-forsaken country!”
Pesita grinned indulgently.
“Very well, Senor Captain,” he said, bowing low. “I let Miguel and your honorable friend go. I send safe escort with them.”
“Bully fer you, ol' pot!” exclaimed Billy, and Pesita smiled delightedly in the belief that some complimentary title had been applied to him in the language of “Granavenoo.” “I'll go an' tell 'em,” said Billy.
“Yes,” said Pesita, “and say to them that they will start early in the morning.”
As Billy turned and walked in the direction that the soldiers had led Bridge and Miguel, Pesita beckoned to a soldier who leaned upon his gun at a short distance from his “general”—a barefooted, slovenly attempt at a headquarters orderly.
“Send Captain Rozales to me,” directed Pesita.
The soldier shuffled away to where a little circle of men in wide-brimmed, metal-encrusted hats squatted in the shade of a tree, chatting, laughing, and rolling cigarettes. He saluted one of these and delivered his message, whereupon the tall, gaunt Captain Rozales arose and came over to Pesita.
“The big one who was brought in today is not a gringo,” said Pesita, by way of opening the conversation. “He is from Granavenoo. He can be of great service to us, for he is very friendly with the Germans—yet he looks like a gringo and could pass for one. We can utilize him. Also he is very large and appears to be equally strong. He should make a good fighter and we have none too many. I have made him a captain.”
Rozales grinned. Already among Pesita's following of a hundred men there were fifteen captains.
“Where is Granavenoo?” asked Rozales.
“You mean to say, my dear captain,” exclaimed Pesita, “that a man of your education does not know where Granavenoo is? I am surprised. Why, it is a German colony.”
“Yes, of course. I recall it well now. For the moment it had slipped my mind. My grandfather who was a great traveler was there many times. I have heard him speak of it often.”
“But I did not summon you that we might discuss European geography,” interrupted Pesita. “I sent for you to tell you that the stranger would not consent to serve me unless I liberated his friend, the gringo, and that sneaking spy of a Miguel. I was forced to yield, for we can use the stranger. So I have promised, my dear captain, that I shall send them upon their road with a safe escort in the morning, and you shall command the guard. Upon your life respect my promise, Rozales; but if some of Villa's cutthroats should fall upon you, and in the battle, while you were trying to defend the gringo and Miguel, both should be slain by the bullets of the Villistas—ah, but it would be deplorable, Rozales, but it would not be your fault. Who, indeed, could blame you who had fought well and risked your men and yourself in the performance of your sacred duty? Rozales, should such a thing occur what could I do in token of my great pleasure other than make you a colonel?”
“I shall defend them with my life, my general,” cried Rozales, bowing low.
“Good!” cried Pesita. “That is all.”
Rozales started back toward the ring of smokers.
“Ah, Captain!” cried Pesita. “Another thing. Will you make it known to the other officers that the stranger from Granavenoo is a captain and that it is my wish that he be well treated, but not told so much as might injure him, or his usefulness, about our sacred work of liberating poor, bleeding unhappy Mexico.”
Again Rozales bowed and departed. This time he was not recalled.
Billy found Bridge and Miguel squatting on the ground with two dirty-faced peons standing guard over them. The latter were some little distance away. They made no objection when Billy approached the prisoners though they had looked in mild surprise when they saw him crossing toward them without a guard.
Billy sat down beside Bridge, and broke into a laugh.
“What's the joke?” asked Bridge. “Are we going to be hanged instead of being shot?”
“We ain't goin' to be either,” said Billy, “an' I'm a captain. Whaddaya know about that?”
He explained all that had taken place between himself and Pesita while Bridge and Miguel listened attentively to his every word.
“I t'ought it was about de only way out fer us,” said Billy. “We were in worse than I t'ought.”
“Can the Bowery stuff, Billy,” cried Bridge, “and talk like a white man. You can, you know.”
“All right, bo,” cried Billy, good-naturedly. “You see I forget when there is anything pressing like this, to chew about. Then I fall back into the old lingo. Well, as I was saying, I didn't want to do it unless you would stay too, but he wouldn't have you. He has it in for all gringos, and that bull you passed him about me being from a foreign country called Grand Avenue! He fell for it like a rube for the tapped-wire stuff. He said if I wouldn't stay and help him he'd croak the bunch of us.”
“How about that ace-in-the-hole, you were telling me about?” asked Bridge.
“I still got it,” and Billy fondled something hard that swung under his left arm beneath his shirt; “but, Lord, man! what could I do against the whole bunch? I might get a few of them; but they'd get us all in the end. This other way is better, though I hate to have to split with you, old man.”
He was silent then for a moment, looking hard at the ground. Bridge whistled, and cleared his throat.
“I've always wanted to spend a year in Rio,” he said. “We'll meet there, when you can make your get-away.”
“You've said it,” agreed Byrne. “It's Rio as soon as we can make it. Pesita's promised to set you both loose in the morning and send you under safe escort—Miguel to his happy home, and you to El Orobo Rancho. I guess the old stiff isn't so bad after all.”
Miguel had pricked up his ears at the sound of the word ESCORT. He leaned far forward, closer to the two Americans, and whispered.
“Who is to command the escort?” he asked.
“I dunno,” said Billy. “What difference does it make?”
“It makes all the difference between life and death for your friend and for me,” said Miguel. “There is no reason why I should need an escort. I know my way throughout all Chihuahua as well as Pesita or any of his cutthroats. I have come and gone all my life without an escort. Of course your friend is different. It might be well for him to have company to El Orobo. Maybe it is all right; but wait until we learn who commands the escort. I know Pesita well. I know his methods. If Rozales rides out with us tomorrow morning you may say good-bye to your friend forever, for you will never see him in Rio, or elsewhere. He and I will be dead before ten o'clock.”
“What makes you think that, bo?” demanded Billy.
“I do not think, senor,” replied Miguel; “I know.”
“Well,” said Billy, “we'll wait and see.”
“If it is Rozales, say nothing,” said Miguel. “It will do no good; but we may then be on the watch, and if possible you might find the means to obtain a couple of revolvers for us. In which case—” he shrugged and permitted a faint smile to flex his lips.
As they talked a soldier came and announced that they were no longer prisoners—they were to have the freedom of the camp; “but,” he concluded, “the general requests that you do not pass beyond the limits of the camp. There are many desperadoes in the hills and he fears for your safety, now that you are his guests.”
The man spoke Spanish, so that it was necessary that Bridge interpret his words for the benefit of Billy, who had understood only part of what he said.
“Ask him,” said Byrne, “if that stuff goes for me, too.”
“He says no,” replied Bridge after questioning the soldier, “that the captain is now one of them, and may go and come as do the other officers. Such are Pesita's orders.”
Billy arose. The messenger had returned to his post at headquarters. The guard had withdrawn, leaving the three men alone.
“So long, old man,” said Billy. “If I'm goin' to be of any help to you and Mig the less I'm seen with you the better. I'll blow over and mix with the Dago bunch, an' practice sittin' on my heels. It seems to be the right dope down here, an' I got to learn all I can about bein' a greaser seein' that I've turned one.”
“Good-bye Billy, remember Rio,” said Bridge.
“And the revolvers, senor,” added Miguel.
“You bet,” replied Billy, and strolled off in the direction of the little circle of cigarette smokers.
As he approached them Rozales looked up and smiled. Then, rising, extended his hand.
“Senor Captain,” he said, “we welcome you. I am Captain Rozales.” He hesitated waiting for Billy to give his name.
“My monacker's Byrne,” said Billy. “Pleased to meet you, Cap.”
“Ah, Captain Byrne,” and Rozales proceeded to introduce the newcomer to his fellow-officers.
Several, like Rozales, were educated men who had been officers in the army under former regimes, but had turned bandit as the safer alternative to suffering immediate death at the hands of the faction then in power. The others, for the most part, were pure-blooded Indians whose adult lives had been spent in outlawry and brigandage. All were small of stature beside the giant, Byrne. Rozales and two others spoke English. With those Billy conversed. He tried to learn from them the name of the officer who was to command the escort that was to accompany Bridge and Miguel into the valley on the morrow; but Rozales and the others assured him that they did not know.
When he had asked the question Billy had been looking straight at Rozales, and he had seen the man's pupils contract and noticed the slight backward movement of the body which also denotes determination. Billy knew, therefore, that Rozales was lying. He did know who was to command the escort, and there was something sinister in that knowledge or the fellow would not have denied it.
The American began to consider plans for saving his friend from the fate which Pesita had outlined for him. Rozales, too, was thinking rapidly. He was no fool. Why had the stranger desired to know who was to command the escort? He knew none of the officers personally. What difference then, did it make to him who rode out on the morrow with his friend? Ah, but Miguel knew that it would make a difference. Miguel had spoken to the new captain, and aroused his suspicions.
Rozales excused himself and rose. A moment later he was in conversation with Pesita, unburdening himself of his suspicions, and outlining a plan.
“Do not send me in charge of the escort,” he advised. “Send Captain Byrne himself.”
Pesita pooh-poohed the idea.
“But wait,” urged Rozales. “Let the stranger ride in command, with a half-dozen picked men who will see that nothing goes wrong. An hour before dawn I will send two men—they will be our best shots—on ahead. They will stop at a place we both know, and about noon the Captain Byrne and his escort will ride back to camp and tell us that they were attacked by a troop of Villa's men, and that both our guests were killed. It will be sad; but it will not be our fault. We will swear vengeance upon Villa, and the Captain Byrne will hate him as a good Pesitista should.”
“You have the cunning of the Coyote, my captain,” cried Pesita. “It shall be done as you suggest. Go now, and I will send for Captain Byrne, and give him his orders for the morning.”
As Rozales strolled away a figure rose from the shadows at the side of Pesita's tent and slunk off into the darkness.
AND so it was that having breakfasted in the morning Bridge and Miguel started downward toward the valley protected by an escort under Captain Billy Byrne. An old service jacket and a wide-brimmed hat, both donated by brother officers, constituted Captain Byrne's uniform. His mount was the largest that the picket line of Pesita's forces could produce. Billy loomed large amongst his men.
For an hour they rode along the trail, Billy and Bridge conversing upon various subjects, none of which touched upon the one uppermost in the mind of each. Miguel rode, silent and preoccupied. The evening before he had whispered something to Bridge as he had crawled out of the darkness to lie close to the American, and during a brief moment that morning Bridge had found an opportunity to relay the Mexican's message to Billy Byrne.
The latter had but raised his eyebrows a trifle at the time, but later he smiled more than was usual with him. Something seemed to please him immensely.
Beside him at the head of the column rode Bridge and Miguel. Behind them trailed the six swarthy little troopers—the picked men upon whom Pesita could depend.
They had reached a point where the trail passes through a narrow dry arroyo which the waters of the rainy season had cut deep into the soft, powdery soil. Upon either bank grew cacti and mesquite, forming a sheltering screen behind which a regiment might have hidden. The place was ideal for an ambuscade.
“Here, Senor Capitan,” whispered Miguel, as they neared the entrance to the trap.
A low hill shut off from their view all but the head of the cut, and it also hid them from the sight of any possible enemy which might have been lurking in wait for them farther down the arroyo.
At Miguel's words Byrne wheeled his horse to the right away from the trail which led through the bottom of the waterway and around the base of the hill, or rather in that direction, for he had scarce deviated from the direct way before one of the troopers spurred to his side, calling out in Spanish that he was upon the wrong trail.
“Wot's this guy chewin' about?” asked Billy, turning to Miguel.
“He says you must keep to the arroyo, Senor Capitan,” explained the Mexican.
“Tell him to go back into his stall,” was Byrne's laconic rejoinder, as he pushed his mount forward to pass the brigand.
The soldier was voluble in his objections. Again he reined in front of Billy, and by this time his five fellows had spurred forward to block the way.
“This is the wrong trail,” they cried. “Come this other way, Capitan. Pesita has so ordered it.”
Catching the drift of their remarks, Billy waved them to one side.
“I'm bossin' this picnic,” he announced. “Get out o' the way, an' be quick about it if you don't want to be hurted.”
Again he rode forward. Again the troopers interposed their mounts, and this time their leader cocked his carbine. His attitude was menacing. Billy was close to him. Their ponies were shoulder to shoulder, that of the bandit almost broadside of the trail.
Now Billy Byrne was more than passing well acquainted with many of the fundamental principles of sudden brawls. It is safe to say that he had never heard of Van Bibber; but he knew, as well as Van Bibber knew, that it is well to hit first.
Without a word and without warning he struck, leaning forward with all the weight of his body behind his blow, and catching the man full beneath the chin he lifted him as neatly from his saddle as though a battering ram had struck him.
Simultaneously Bridge and Miguel drew revolvers from their shirts and as Billy wheeled his pony toward the remaining five they opened fire upon them.
The battle was short and sweet. One almost escaped but Miguel, who proved to be an excellent revolver shot, brought him down at a hundred yards. He then, with utter disregard for the rules of civilized warfare, dispatched those who were not already dead.
“We must let none return to carry false tales to Pesita,” he explained.
Even Billy Byrne winced at the ruthlessness of the cold-blooded murders; but he realized the necessity which confronted them though he could not have brought himself to do the things which the Mexican did with such sang-froid and even evident enjoyment.
“Now for the others!” cried Miguel, when he had assured himself that each of the six were really quite dead.
Spurring after him Billy and Bridge ran their horses over the rough ground at the base of the little hill, and then parallel to the arroyo for a matter of a hundred yards, where they espied two Indians, carbines in hand, standing in evident consternation because of the unexpected fusillade of shots which they had just heard and which they were unable to account for.
At the sight of the three the sharpshooters dropped behind cover and fired. Billy's horse stumbled at the first report, caught himself, reared high upon his hind legs and then toppled over, dead.
His rider, throwing himself to one side, scrambled to his feet and fired twice at the partially concealed men. Miguel and Bridge rode in rapidly to close quarters, firing as they came. One of the two men Pesita had sent to assassinate his “guests” dropped his gun, clutched at his breast, screamed, and sank back behind a clump of mesquite. The other turned and leaped over the edge of the bank into the arroyo, rolling and tumbling to the bottom in a cloud of dry dust.
As he rose to his feet and started on a run up the bed of the dry stream, dodging a zigzag course from one bit of scant cover to another Billy Byrne stepped to the edge of the washout and threw his carbine to his shoulder. His face was flushed, his eyes sparkled, a smile lighted his regular features.
“This is the life!” he cried, and pulled the trigger.
The man beneath him, running for his life like a frightened jackrabbit, sprawled forward upon his face, made a single effort to rise and then slumped limply down, forever.
Miguel and Bridge, dismounted now, came to Byrne's side. The Mexican was grinning broadly.
“The captain is one grand fighter,” he said. “How my dear general would admire such a man as the captain. Doubtless he would make him a colonel. Come with me Senor Capitan and your fortune is made.”
“Come where?” asked Billy Byrne.
“To the camp of the liberator of poor, bleeding Mexico—to General Francisco Villa.”
“Nothin' doin',” said Billy. “I'm hooked up with this Pesita person now, an' I guess I'll stick. He's given me more of a run for my money in the last twenty-four hours than I've had since I parted from my dear old friend, the Lord of Yoka.”
“But Senor Capitan,” cried Miguel, “you do not mean to say that you are going back to Pesita! He will shoot you down with his own hand when he has learned what has happened here.”
“I guess not,” said Billy.
“You'd better go with Miguel, Billy,” urged Bridge. “Pesita will not forgive you this. You've cost him eight men today and he hasn't any more men than he needs at best. Besides you've made a monkey of him and unless I miss my guess you'll have to pay for it.”
“No,” said Billy, “I kind o' like this Pesita gent. I think I'll stick around with him for a while yet. Anyhow until I've had a chance to see his face after I've made my report to him. You guys run along now and make your get-away good, an' I'll beat it back to camp.”
He crossed to where the two horses of the slain marksmen were hidden, turned one of them loose and mounted the other.
“So long, boes!” he cried, and with a wave of his hand wheeled about and spurred back along the trail over which they had just come.
Miguel and Bridge watched him for a moment, then they, too, mounted and turned away in the opposite direction. Bridge recited no verse for the balance of that day. His heart lay heavy in his bosom, for he missed Billy Byrne, and was fearful of the fate which awaited him at the camp of the bandit.
Billy, blithe as a lark, rode gaily back along the trail to camp. He looked forward with unmixed delight to his coming interview with Pesita, and to the wild, half-savage life which association with the bandit promised. All his life had Billy Byrne fed upon excitement and adventure. As gangster, thug, holdup man and second-story artist Billy had found food for his appetite within the dismal, sooty streets of Chicago's great West Side, and then Fate had flung him upon the savage shore of Yoka to find other forms of adventure where the best that is in a strong man may be brought out in the stern battle for existence against primeval men and conditions. The West Side had developed only Billy's basest characteristics. He might have slipped back easily into the old ways had it not been for HER and the recollection of that which he had read in her eyes. Love had been there; but greater than that to hold a man into the straight and narrow path of decency and honor had been respect and admiration. It had seemed incredible to Billy that a goddess should feel such things for him—for the same man her scornful lips once had branded as coward and mucker; yet he had read the truth aright, and since then Billy Byrne had done his best according to the light that had been given him to deserve the belief she had in him.
So far there had crept into his consciousness no disquieting doubts as to the consistency of his recent action in joining the force of a depredating Mexican outlaw. Billy knew nothing of the political conditions of the republic. Had Pesita told him that he was president of Mexico, Billy could not have disputed the statement from any knowledge of facts which he possessed. As a matter of fact about all Billy had ever known of Mexico was that it had some connection with an important place called Juarez where running meets were held.
To Billy Byrne, then, Pesita was a real general, and Billy, himself, a bona fide captain. He had entered an army which was at war with some other army. What they were warring about Billy knew not, nor did he care. There should be fighting and he loved that—that much he knew. The ethics of Pesita's warfare troubled him not. He had heard that some great American general had said: “War is hell.” Billy was willing to take his word for it, and accept anything which came in the guise of war as entirely proper and as it should be.
The afternoon was far gone when Billy drew rein in the camp of the outlaw band. Pesita with the bulk of his raiders was out upon some excursion to the north. Only half a dozen men lolled about, smoking or sleeping away the hot day. They looked at Billy in evident surprise when they saw him riding in alone; but they asked no questions and Billy offered no explanation—his report was for the ears of Pesita only.
The balance of the day Billy spent in acquiring further knowledge of Spanish by conversing with those of the men who remained awake, and asking innumerable questions. It was almost sundown when Pesita rode in. Two riderless horses were led by troopers in the rear of the little column and three men swayed painfully in their saddles and their clothing was stained with blood.
Evidently Pesita had met with resistance. There was much voluble chattering on the part of those who had remained behind in their endeavors to extract from their returning comrades the details of the day's enterprise. By piecing together the various scraps of conversation he could understand Billy discovered that Pesita had ridden far to demand tribute from a wealthy ranchero, only to find that word of his coming had preceded him and brought a large detachment of Villa's regulars who concealed themselves about the house and outbuildings until Pesita and his entire force were well within close range.
“We were lucky to get off as well as we did,” said an officer.
Billy grinned inwardly as he thought of the pleasant frame of mind in which Pesita might now be expected to receive the news that eight of his troopers had been killed and his two “guests” safely removed from the sphere of his hospitality.
And even as his mind dwelt delightedly upon the subject a ragged Indian carrying a carbine and with heavy silver spurs strapped to his bare feet approached and saluted him.
“General Pesita wishes Senor Capitan Byrne to report to him at once,” said the man.
“Sure Mike!” replied Billy, and made his way through the pandemonium of the camp toward the headquarters tent.
As he went he slipped his hand inside his shirt and loosened something which hung beneath his left arm.
“Li'l ol' ace-in-the-hole,” he murmured affectionately.
He found Pesita pacing back and forth before his tent—an energetic bundle of nerves which no amount of hard riding and fighting could tire or discourage.
As Billy approached Pesita shot a quick glance at his face, that he might read, perhaps, in his new officer's expression whether anger or suspicion had been aroused by the killing of his American friend, for Pesita never dreamed but that Bridge had been dead since mid-forenoon.
“Well,” said Pesita, smiling, “you left Senor Bridge and Miguel safely at their destination?”
“I couldn't take 'em all the way,” replied Billy, “cause I didn't have no more men to guard 'em with; but I seen 'em past the danger I guess an' well on their way.”
“You had no men?” questioned Pesita. “You had six troopers.”
“Oh, they was all croaked before we'd been gone two hours. You see it happens like this: We got as far as that dry arroyo just before the trail drops down into the valley, when up jumps a bunch of this here Villa's guys and commenced takin' pot shots at us.
“Seein' as how I was sent to guard Bridge an' Mig, I makes them dismount and hunt cover, and then me an' my men wades in and cleans up the bunch. They was only a few of them but they croaked the whole bloomin' six o' mine.
“I tell you it was some scrap while it lasted; but I saved your guests from gettin' hurted an' I know that that's what you sent me to do. It's too bad about the six men we lost but, leave it to me, we'll get even with that Villa guy yet. Just lead me to 'im.”
As he spoke Billy commenced scratching himself beneath the left arm, and then, as though to better reach the point of irritation, he slipped his hand inside his shirt. If Pesita noticed the apparently innocent little act, or interpreted it correctly may or may not have been the fact. He stood looking straight into Byrne's eyes for a full minute. His face denoted neither baffled rage nor contemplated revenge. Presently a slow smile raised his heavy mustache and revealed his strong, white teeth.
“You have done well, Captain Byrne,” he said. “You are a man after my own heart,” and he extended his hand.
A half-hour later Billy walked slowly back to his own blankets, and to say that he was puzzled would scarce have described his mental state.
“I can't quite make that gink out,” he mused. “Either he's a mighty good loser or else he's a deep one who'll wait a year to get me the way he wants to get me.”
And Pesita a few moments later was saying to Captain Rozales:
“I should have shot him if I could spare such a man; but it is seldom I find one with the courage and effrontery he possesses. Why think of it, Rozales, he kills eight of my men, and lets my prisoners escape, and then dares to come back and tell me about it when he might easily have gotten away. Villa would have made him an officer for this thing, and Miguel must have told him so. He found out in some way about your little plan and he turned the tables on us. We can use him, Rozales, but we must watch him. Also, my dear captain, watch his right hand and when he slips it into his shirt be careful that you do not draw on him—unless you happen to be behind him.”
Rozales was not inclined to take his chief's view of Byrne's value to them. He argued that the man was guilty of disloyalty and therefore a menace. What he thought, but did not advance as an argument, was of a different nature. Rozales was filled with rage to think that the newcomer had outwitted him, and beaten him at his own game, and he was jealous, too, of the man's ascendancy in the esteem of Pesita; but he hid his personal feelings beneath a cloak of seeming acquiescence in his chief's views, knowing that some day his time would come when he might rid himself of the danger of this obnoxious rival.
“And tomorrow,” continued Pesita, “I am sending him to Cuivaca. Villa has considerable funds in bank there, and this stranger can learn what I want to know about the size of the detachment holding the town, and the habits of the garrison.”