RICHARD GALE reflected that his sojourn in the West had been what his
disgusted father had predicted--idling here and there, with no
objective point or purpose.
It was reflection such as this, only more serious and perhaps somewhat
desperate, that had brought Gale down to the border. For some time the
newspapers had been printing news of Mexican revolution, guerrilla
warfare, United States cavalry patrolling the international line,
American cowboys fighting with the rebels, and wild stories of bold
raiders and bandits. But as opportunity, and adventure, too, had
apparently given him a wide berth in Montana, Wyoming, Colorado, he had
struck southwest for the Arizona border, where he hoped to see some
stirring life. He did not care very much what happened. Months of
futile wandering in the hope of finding a place where he fitted had
inclined Richard to his father's opinion.
It was after dark one evening in early October when Richard arrived in
Casita. He was surprised to find that it was evidently a town of
importance. There was a jostling, jabbering, sombreroed crowd of
Mexicans around the railroad station. He felt as if he were in a
foreign country. After a while he saw several men of his nationality,
one of whom he engaged to carry his luggage to a hotel. They walked up
a wide, well-lighted street lined with buildings in which were bright
windows. Of the many people encountered by Gale most were Mexicans.
His guide explained that the smaller half of Casita lay in Arizona, the
other half in Mexico, and of several thousand inhabitants the majority
belonged on the southern side of the street, which was the boundary
line. He also said that rebels had entered the town that day, causing
a good deal of excitement.
Gale was almost at the end of his financial resources, which fact
occasioned him to turn away from a pretentious hotel and to ask his
guide for a cheaper lodging-house. When this was found, a sight of the
loungers in the office, and also a desire for comfort, persuaded Gale
to change his traveling-clothes for rough outing garb and boots.
"Well, I'm almost broke," he soliloquized, thoughtfully. "The governor
said I wouldn't make any money. He's right--so far. And he said I'd be
coming home beaten. There he's wrong. I've got a hunch that something
'll happen to me in this Greaser town."
He went out into a wide, whitewashed, high-ceiled corridor, and from
that into an immense room which, but for pool tables, bar, benches,
would have been like a courtyard. The floor was cobblestoned, the
walls were of adobe, and the large windows opened like doors. A blue
cloud of smoke filled the place. Gale heard the click of pool balls
and the clink of glasses along the crowded bar. Bare-legged,
sandal-footed Mexicans in white rubbed shoulders with Mexicans mantled
in black and red. There were others in tight-fitting blue uniforms
with gold fringe or tassels at the shoulders. These men wore belts
with heavy, bone-handled guns, and evidently were the rurales, or
native policemen. There were black-bearded, coarse-visaged Americans,
some gambling round the little tables, others drinking. The pool
tables were the center of a noisy crowd of younger men, several of whom
were unsteady on their feet. There were khaki-clad cavalrymen
strutting in and out.
At one end of the room, somewhat apart from the general meelee, was a
group of six men round a little table, four of whom were seated, the
other two standing. These last two drew a second glance from Gale.
The sharp-featured, bronzed faces and piercing eyes, the tall, slender,
loosely jointed bodies, the quiet, easy, reckless air that seemed to be
a part of the men--these things would plainly have stamped them as
cowboys without the buckled sombreros, the colored scarfs, the
high-topped, high-heeled boots with great silver-roweled spurs. Gale
did not fail to note, also, that these cowboys wore guns, and this fact
was rather a shock to his idea of the modern West. It caused him to
give some credence to the rumors of fighting along the border, and he
felt a thrill.
He satisfied his hunger in a restaurant adjoining, and as he stepped
back into the saloon a man wearing a military cape jostled him.
Apologies from both were instant. Gale was moving on when the other
stopped short as if startled, and, leaning forward, exclaimed:
"Dick Gale?"
"You've got me," replied Gale, in surprise. "But I don't know you."
He could not see the stranger's face, because it was wholly shaded by a
wide-brimmed hat pulled well down.
"By Jove! It's Dick! If this isn't great! Don't you know me?"
"I've heard your voice somewhere," replied Gale. "Maybe I'll recognize
you if you come out from under that bonnet."
For answer the man, suddenly manifesting thought of himself, hurriedly
drew Gale into the restaurant, where he thrust back his hat to disclose
a handsome, sunburned face.
"George Thorne! So help me--"
"'S-s-ssh. You needn't yell," interrupted the other, as he met Gale's
outstretched hand. There was a close, hard, straining grip. "I must
not be recognized here. There are reasons. I'll explain in a minute.
Say, but it's fine to see you! Five years, Dick, five years since I
saw you run down University Field and spread-eagle the whole Wisconsin
football team."
"Don't recollect that," replied Dick, laughing. "George, I'll bet you
I'm gladder to see you than you are to see me. It seems so long. You
went into the army, didn't you?"
"I did. I'm here now with the Ninth Cavalry. But--never mind me.
What're you doing way down here? Say, I just noticed your togs. Dick,
you can't be going in for mining or ranching, not in this God-forsaken
desert?"
"On the square, George, I don't know any more why I'm here than--than
you know."
"Well, that beats me!" ejaculated Thorne, sitting back in his chair,
amaze and concern in his expression. "What the devil's wrong? Your old
man's got too much money for you ever to be up against it. Dick, you
couldn't have gone to the bad?"
A tide of emotion surged over Gale. How good it was to meet a
friend--some one to whom to talk! He had never appreciated his
loneliness until that moment.
"George, how I ever drifted down here I don't know. I didn't exactly
quarrel with the governor. But--damn it, Dad hurt me--shamed me, and I
dug out for the West. It was this way. After leaving college I tried
to please him by tackling one thing after another that he set me to do.
On the square, I had no head for business. I made a mess of
everything. The governor got sore. He kept ramming the harpoon into me
till I just couldn't stand it. What little ability I possessed deserted
me when I got my back up, and there you are. Dad and I had a rather
uncomfortable half hour. When I quit--when I told him straight out that
I was going West to fare for myself, why, it wouldn't have been so
tough if he hadn't laughed at me. He called me a rich man's son--an
idle, easy-going spineless swell. He said I didn't even have character
enough to be out and out bad. He said I didn't have sense enough to
marry one of the nice girls in my sister's crowd. He said I couldn't
get back home unless I sent to him for money. He said he didn't
believe I could fight--could really make a fight for anything under the
sun. Oh--he--he shot it into me, all right."
Dick dropped his head upon his hands, somewhat ashamed of the smarting
dimness in his eyes. He had not meant to say so much. Yet what a
relief to let out that long-congested burden!
"Fight!" cried Thorne, hotly. "What's ailing him? Didn't they call
you Biff Gale in college? Dick, you were one of the best men Stagg
ever developed. I heard him say so--that you were the fastest,
one-hundred-and-seventy-five-pound man he'd ever trained, the hardest
to stop."
"The governor didn't count football," said Dick. "He didn't mean that
kind of fight. When I left home I don't think I had an idea what was
wrong with me. But, George, I think I know now. I was a rich man's
son--spoiled, dependent, absolutely ignorant of the value of money. I
haven't yet discovered any earning capacity in me. I seem to be unable
to do anything with my hands. That's the trouble. But I'm at the end
of my tether now. And I'm going to punch cattle or be a miner, or do
some real stunt--like joining the rebels."
"Aha! I thought you'd spring that last one on me," declared Thorne,
wagging his head. "Well, you just forget it. Say, old boy, there's
something doing in Mexico. The United States in general doesn't
realize it. But across that line there are crazy revolutionists,
ill-paid soldiers, guerrilla leaders, raiders, robbers, outlaws,
bandits galore, starving peons by the thousand, girls and women in
terror. Mexico is like some of her volcanoes--ready to erupt fire and
hell! Don't make the awful mistake of joining rebel forces. Americans
are hated by Mexicans of the lower class--the fighting class, both
rebel and federal. Half the time these crazy Greasers are on one side,
then on the other. If you didn't starve or get shot in ambush, or die
of thirst, some Greaser would knife you in the back for you belt buckle
or boots. There are a good many Americans with the rebels eastward
toward Agua, Prieta and Juarez. Orozco is operating in Chihuahua, and
I guess he has some idea of warfare. But this is Sonora, a mountainous
desert, the home of the slave and the Yaqui. There's unorganized
revolt everywhere. The American miners and ranchers, those who could
get away, have fled across into the States, leaving property. Those
who couldn't or wouldn't come must fight for their lives, are fighting
now."
"That's bad," said Gale. "It's news to me. Why doesn't the government
take action, do something?"
"Afraid of international complications. Don't want to offend the
Maderists, or be criticized by jealous foreign nations. It's a
delicate situation, Dick. The Washington officials know the gravity of
it, you can bet. But the United States in general is in the dark, and
the army--well, you ought to hear the inside talk back at San Antonio.
We're patrolling the boundary line. We're making a grand bluff. I
could tell you of a dozen instances where cavalry should have pursued
raiders on the other side of the line. But we won't do it. The
officers are a grouchy lot these days. You see, of course, what
significance would attach to United States cavalry going into Mexican
territory. There would simply be hell. My own colonel is the sorest
man on the job. We're all sore. It's like sitting on a powder
magazine. We can't keep the rebels and raiders from crossing the line.
Yet we don't fight. My commission expires soon. I'll be discharged in
three months. You can bet I'm glad for more reasons than I've
mentioned."
Thorne was evidently laboring under strong, suppressed excitement. His
face showed pale under the tan, and his eyes gleamed with a dark fire.
Occasionally his delight at meeting, talking with Gale, dominated the
other emotions, but not for long. He had seated himself at a table
near one of the doorlike windows leading into the street, and every
little while he would glance sharply out. Also he kept consulting his
watch.
These details gradually grew upon Gale as Thorne talked.
"George, it strikes me that you're upset," said Dick, presently. "I
seem to remember you as a cool-headed fellow whom nothing could
disturb. Has the army changed you?"
Thorne laughed. It was a laugh with a strange, high note. It was
reckless--it hinted of exaltation. He rose abruptly; he gave the
waiter money to go for drinks; he looked into the saloon, and then into
the street. On this side of the house there was a porch opening on a
plaza with trees and shrubbery and branches. Thorne peered out one
window, then another. His actions were rapid. Returning to the table,
he put his hands upon it and leaned over to look closely into Gale's
face.
"I'm away from camp without leave," he said.
"Isn't that a serious offense?" asked Dick.
"Serious? For me, if I'm discovered, it means ruin. There are rebels
in town. Any moment we might have trouble. I ought to be ready for
duty--within call. If I'm discovered it means arrest. That means
delay--the failure of my plans--ruin."
Gale was silenced by his friend's intensity. Thorne bent over closer
with his dark eyes searching bright.
"We were old pals--once?"
"Surely," replied Dick.
"What would you say, Dick Gale, if I told you that you're the one man
I'd rather have had come along than any other at this crisis of my
life?"
The earnest gaze, the passionate voice with its deep tremor drew Dick
upright, thrilling and eager, conscious of strange, unfamiliar
impetuosity.
"Thorne, I should say I was glad to be the fellow," replied Dick.
Their hands locked for a moment, and they sat down again with heads
close over the table.
"Listen," began Thorne, in low, swift whisper, "a few days, a week
ago--it seems like a year!--I was of some assistance to refugees
fleeing from Mexico into the States. They were all women, and one of
them was dressed as a nun. Quite by accident I saw her face. It was
that of a beautiful girl. I observed she kept aloof from the others.
I suspected a disguise, and, when opportunity afforded, spoke to her,
offered my services. She replied to my poor efforts at Spanish in
fluent English. She had fled in terror from her home, some place down
in Sinaloa. Rebels are active there. Her father was captured and held
for ransom. When the ransom was paid the rebels killed him. The leader
of these rebels was a bandit named Rojas. Long before the revolution
began he had been feared by people of class--loved by the peons.
Bandits are worshiped by the peons. All of the famous bandits have
robbed the rich and given to the poor. Rojas saw the daughter, made off
with her. But she contrived to bribe her guards, and escaped almost
immediately before any harm befell her. She hid among friends. Rojas
nearly tore down the town in his efforts to find her. Then she
disguised herself, and traveled by horseback, stage, and train to
Casita.
"Her story fascinated me, and that one fleeting glimpse I had of her
face I couldn't forget. She had no friends here, no money. She knew
Rojas was trailing her. This talk I had with her was at the railroad
station, where all was bustle and confusion. No one noticed us, so I
thought. I advised her to remove the disguise of a nun before she left
the waiting-room. And I got a boy to guide her. But he fetched her to
his house. I had promised to come in the evening to talk over the
situation with her.
"I found her, Dick, and when I saw her--I went stark, staring, raving
mad over her. She is the most beautiful, wonderful girl I ever saw.
Her name is Mercedes Castaneda, and she belongs to one of the old
wealthy Spanish families. She has lived abroad and in Havana. She
speaks French as well as English. She is--but I must be brief.
"Dick, think, think! With Mercedes also it was love at first sight. My
plan is to marry her and get her farther to the interior, away from the
border. It may not be easy. She's watched. So am I. It was
impossible to see her without the women of this house knowing. At
first, perhaps, they had only curiosity--an itch to gossip. But the
last two days there has been a change. Since last night there's some
powerful influence at work. Oh, these Mexicans are subtle, mysterious!
After all, they are Spaniards. They work in secret, in the dark. They
are dominated first by religion, then by gold, then by passion for a
woman. Rojas must have got word to his friends here; yesterday his
gang of cutthroat rebels arrived, and to-day he came. When I learned
that, I took my chance and left camp. I hunted up a priest. He
promised to come here. It's time he's due. But I'm afraid he'll be
stopped."
"Thorne, why don't you take the girl and get married without waiting,
without running these risks?" said Dick.
"I fear it's too late now. I should have done that last night. You
see, we're over the line--"
"Are we in Mexican territory now?" queried Gale, sharply.
"I guess yes, old boy. That's what complicates it. Rojas and his
rebels have Casita in their hands. But Rojas without his rebels would
be able to stop me, get the girl, and make for his mountain haunts. If
Mercedes is really watched--if her identity is known, which I am sure
is the case--we couldn't get far from this house before I'd be knifed
and she seized."
"Good Heavens! Thorne, can that sort of thing happen less than a
stone's throw from the United States line?" asked Gale, incredulously.
"It can happen, and don't you forget it. You don't seem to realize the
power these guerrilla leaders, these rebel captains, and particularly
these bandits, exercise over the mass of Mexicans. A bandit is a man of
honor in Mexico. He is feared, envied, loved. In the hearts of the
people he stands next to the national idol--the bull-fighter, the
matador. The race has a wild, barbarian, bloody strain. Take
Quinteros, for instance. He was a peon, a slave. He became a famous
bandit. At the outbreak of the revolution he proclaimed himself a
leader, and with a band of followers he devastated whole counties. The
opposition to federal forces was only a blind to rob and riot and carry
off women. The motto of this man and his followers was: 'Let us enjoy
ourselves while we may!'
"There are other bandits besides Quinteros, not so famous or such great
leaders, but just as bloodthirsty. I've seen Rojas. He's a handsome,
bold sneering devil, vainer than any peacock. He decks himself in gold
lace and sliver trappings, in all the finery he can steal. He was one
of the rebels who helped sack Sinaloa and carry off half a million in
money and valuables. Rojas spends gold like he spills blood. But he
is chiefly famous for abducting women. The peon girls consider it an
honor to be ridden off with. Rojas has shown a penchant for girls of
the better class."
Thorne wiped the perspiration from his pale face and bent a dark gaze
out of the window before he resumed his talk.
"Consider what the position of Mercedes really is. I can't get any
help from our side of the line. If so, I don't know where. The
population on that side is mostly Mexican, absolutely in sympathy with
whatever actuates those on this side. The whole caboodle of Greasers
on both sides belong to the class in sympathy with the rebels, the
class that secretly respects men like Rojas, and hates an aristocrat
like Mercedes. They would conspire to throw her into his power. Rojas
can turn all the hidden underground influences to his ends. Unless I
thwart him he'll get Mercedes as easily as he can light a cigarette.
But I'll kill him or some of his gang or her before I let him get
her.... This is the situation, old friend. I've little time to spare.
I face arrest for desertion. Rojas is in town. I think I was followed
to this hotel. The priest has betrayed me or has been stopped.
Mercedes is here alone, waiting, absolutely dependent upon me to save
her from--from.... She's the sweetest, loveliest girl!... In a few
moments--sooner or later there'll be hell here! Dick, are you with me?"
Dick Gale drew a long, deep breath. A coldness, a lethargy, an
indifference that had weighed upon him for months had passed out of his
being. On the instant he could not speak, but his hand closed
powerfully upon his friend's. Thorne's face changed wonderfully, the
distress, the fear, the appeal all vanishing in a smile of passionate
gratefulness.
Then Dick's gaze, attracted by some slight sound, shot over his
friend's shoulder to see a face at the window--a handsome, bold,
sneering face, with glittering dark eyes that flashed in sinister
intentness.
Dick stiffened in his seat. Thorne, with sudden clenching of hands,
wheeled toward the window.
"Rojas!" he whispered.