THE dark face vanished. Dick Gale heard footsteps and the tinkle of
spurs. He strode to the window, and was in time to see a Mexican
swagger into the front door of the saloon. Dick had only a glimpse;
but in that he saw a huge black sombrero with a gaudy band, the back of
a short, tight-fitting jacket, a heavy pearl-handled gun swinging with
a fringe of sash, and close-fitting trousers spreading wide at the
bottom. There were men passing in the street, also several Mexicans
lounging against the hitching-rail at the curb.
"Did you see him? Where did he go?" whispered Thorne, as he joined
Gale. "Those Greasers out there with the cartridge belts crossed over
their breasts--they are rebels."
"I think he went into the saloon," replied Dick. "He had a gun, but
for all I can see the Greasers out there are unarmed."
"Never believe it! There! Look, Dick! That fellow's a guard, though
he seems so unconcerned. See, he has a short carbine, almost
concealed.... There's another Greaser farther down the path. I'm
afraid Rojas has the house spotted."
"If we could only be sure."
"I'm sure, Dick. Let's cross the hall; I want to see how it looks from
the other side of the house."
Gale followed Thorne out of the restaurant into the high-ceiled
corridor which evidently divided the hotel, opening into the street and
running back to a patio. A few dim, yellow lamps flickered. A Mexican
with a blanket round his shoulders stood in the front entrance. Back
toward the patio there were sounds of boots on the stone floor. Shadows
flitted across that end of the corridor. Thorne entered a huge chamber
which was even more poorly lighted than the hall. It contained a table
littered with papers, a few high-backed chairs, a couple of couches,
and was evidently a parlor.
"Mercedes has been meeting me here," said Thorne. "At this hour she
comes every moment or so to the head of the stairs there, and if I am
here she comes down. Mostly there are people in this room a little
later. We go out into the plaza. It faces the dark side of the house,
and that's the place I must slip out with her if there's any chance at
all to get away."
They peered out of the open window. The plaza was gloomy, and at first
glance apparently deserted. In a moment, however, Gale made out a
slow-pacing dark form on the path. Farther down there was another. No
particular keenness was required to see in these forms a sentinel-like
stealthiness.
Gripping Gale's arm, Thorne pulled back from the window.
"You saw them," he whispered. "It's just as I feared. Rojas has the
place surrounded. I should have taken Mercedes away. But I had no
time--no chance! I'm bound!... There's Mercedes now! My God!... Dick,
think--think if there's a way to get her out of this trap!"
Gale turned as his friend went down the room. In the dim light at the
head of the stairs stood the slim, muffled figure of a woman. When she
saw Thorne she flew noiselessly down the stairway to him. He caught her
in his arms. Then she spoke softly, brokenly, in a low, swift voice.
It was a mingling of incoherent Spanish and English; but to Gale it was
mellow, deep, unutterably tender, a voice full of joy, fear, passion,
hope, and love. Upon Gale it had an unaccountable effect. He found
himself thrilling, wondering.
Thorne led the girl to the center of the room, under the light where
Gale stood. She had raised a white hand, holding a black-laced
mantilla half aside. Dick saw a small, dark head, proudly held, an
oval face half hidden, white as a flower, and magnificent black eyes.
Then Thorne spoke.
"Mercedes--Dick Gale, an old friend--the best friend I ever had."
She swept the mantilla back over her head, disclosing a lovely face,
strange and striking to Gale in its pride and fire, its intensity.
"Senor Gale--ah! I cannot speak my happiness. His friend!"
"Yes, Mercedes; my friend and yours," said Thorne, speaking rapidly.
"We'll have need of him. Dear, there's bad news and no time to break
it gently. The priest did not come. He must have been detained. And
listen--be brave, dear Mercedes--Rojas is here!"
She uttered an inarticulate cry, the poignant terror of which shook
Gale's nerve, and swayed as if she would faint. Thorne caught her, and
in husky voice importuned her to bear up.
"My darling! For God's sake don't faint--don't go to pieces! We'd be
lost! We've got a chance. We'll think of something. Be strong!
Fight!"
It was plain to Gale that Thorne was distracted. He scarcely knew what
he was saying. Pale and shaking, he clasped Mercedes to him. Her
terror had struck him helpless. It was so intense--it was so full of
horrible certainty of what fate awaited her.
She cried out in Spanish, beseeching him; and as he shook his head, she
changed to English:
"Senor, my lover, I will be strong--I will fight--I will obey. But
swear by my Virgin, if need be to save me from Rojas--you will kill me!"
"Mercedes! Yes, I'll swear," he replied hoarsely. "I know--I'd rather
have you dead than-- But don't give up. Rojas can't be sure of you, or
he wouldn't wait. He's in there. He's got his men there--all around
us. But he hesitates. A beast like Rojas doesn't stand idle for
nothing. I tell you we've a chance. Dick, here, will think of
something. We'll slip away. Then he'll take you somewhere.
Only--speak to him--show him you won't weaken. Mercedes, this is more
than love and happiness for us. It's life or death."
She became quiet, and slowly recovered control of herself.
Suddenly she wheeled to face Gale with proud dark eyes, tragic
sweetness of appeal, and exquisite grace.
"Senor, you are an American. You cannot know the Spanish blood--the
peon bandit's hate and cruelty. I wish to die before Rojas's hand
touches me. If he takes me alive, then the hour, the little day that
my life lasts afterward will be tortured--torture of hell. If I live
two days his brutal men will have me. If I live three, the dogs of his
camp... Senor, have you a sister whom you love? Help Senor Thorne to
save me. He is a soldier. He is bound. He must not betray his honor,
his duty, for me.... Ah, you two splendid Americans--so big, so strong,
so fierce! What is that little black half-breed slave Rojas to such
men? Rojas is a coward. Now, let me waste no more precious time. I am
ready. I will be brave."
She came close to Gale, holding out her white hands, a woman all fire
and soul and passion. To Gale she was wonderful. His heart leaped.
As he bent over her hands and kissed them he seemed to feel himself
renewed, remade.
"Senorita," he said, "I am happy to be your servant. I can conceive of
no greater pleasure than giving the service you require."
"And what is that?" inquired Thorne, hurriedly.
"That of incapacitating Senor Rojas for to-night, and perhaps several
nights to come," replied Gale.
"Dick, what will you do?" asked Thorne, now in alarm.
"I'll make a row in that saloon," returned Dick, bluntly. "I'll start
something. I'll rush Rojas and his crowd. I'll--"
"Lord, no; you mustn't, Dick--you'll be knifed!" cried Thorne. He was
in distress, yet his eyes were shining.
"I'll take a chance. Maybe I can surprise that slow Greaser bunch and
get away before they know what's happened.... You be ready watching at
the window. When the row starts those fellows out there in the plaza
will run into the saloon. Then you slip out, go straight through the
plaza down the street. It's a dark street, I remember. I'll catch up
with you before you get far."
Thorne gasped, but did not say a word. Mercedes leaned against him,
her white hands now at her breast, her great eyes watching Gale as he
went out.
In the corridor Gale stopped long enough to pull on a pair of heavy
gloves, to muss his hair, and disarrange his collar. Then he stepped
into the restaurant, went through, and halted in the door leading into
the saloon. His five feet eleven inches and one hundred and eighty
pounds were more noticeable there, and it was part of his plan to
attract attention to himself. No one, however, appeared to notice him.
The pool-players were noisily intent on their game, the same crowd of
motley-robed Mexicans hung over the reeking bar. Gale's roving glance
soon fixed upon the man he took to be Rojas. He recognized the huge,
high-peaked, black sombrero with its ornamented band. The Mexican's
face was turned aside. He was in earnest, excited colloquy with a
dozen or more comrades, most of whom were sitting round a table. They
were listening, talking, drinking. The fact that they wore cartridge
belts crossed over their breasts satisfied that these were the rebels.
He had noted the belts of the Mexicans outside, who were apparently
guards. A waiter brought more drinks to this group at the table, and
this caused the leader to turn so Gale could see his face. It was
indeed the sinister, sneering face of the bandit Rojas. Gale gazed at
the man with curiosity. He was under medium height, and striking in
appearance only because of his dandified dress and evil visage. He wore
a lace scarf, a tight, bright-buttoned jacket, a buckskin vest
embroidered in red, a sash and belt joined by an enormous silver clasp.
Gale saw again the pearl-handled gun swinging at the bandit's hip.
Jewels flashed in his scarf. There were gold rings in his ears and
diamonds on his fingers.
Gale became conscious of an inward fire that threatened to overrun his
coolness. Other emotions harried his self-control. It seemed as if
sight of the man liberated or created a devil in Gale. And at the
bottom of his feelings there seemed to be a wonder at himself, a
strange satisfaction for the something that had come to him.
He stepped out of the doorway, down the couple of steps to the floor of
the saloon, and he staggered a little, simulating drunkenness. He fell
over the pool tables, jostled Mexicans at the bar, laughed like a
maudlin fool, and, with his hat slouched down, crowded here and there.
Presently his eye caught sight of the group of cowboys whom he had
before noticed with such interest.
They were still in a corner somewhat isolated. With fertile mind
working, Gale lurched over to them. He remembered his many
unsuccessful attempts to get acquainted with cowboys. If he were to
get any help from these silent aloof rangers it must be by striking
fire from them in one swift stroke. Planting himself squarely before
the two tall cowboys who were standing, he looked straight into their
lean, bronzed faces. He spared a full moment for that keen cool gaze
before he spoke.
"I'm not drunk. I'm throwing a bluff, and I mean to start a rough
house. I'm going to rush that damned bandit Rojas. It's to save a
girl--to give her lover, who is my friend, a chance to escape with her.
When I start a row my friend will try to slip out with her. Every door
and window is watched. I've got to raise hell to draw the guards
in.... Well, you're my countrymen. We're in Mexico. A beautiful
girl's honor and life are at stake. Now, gentlemen, watch me!"
One cowboy's eyes narrowed, blinking a little, and his lean jaw
dropped; the other's hard face rippled with a fleeting smile.
Gale backed away, and his pulse leaped when he saw the two cowboys, as
if with one purpose, slowly stride after him. Then Gale swerved,
staggering along, brushed against the tables, kicked over the empty
chairs. He passed Rojas and his gang, and out of the tail of his eye
saw that the bandit was watching him, waving his hands and talking
fiercely. The hum of the many voices grew louder, and when Dick
lurched against a table, overturning it and spilling glasses into the
laps of several Mexicans, there arose a shrill cry. He had succeeded in
attracting attention; almost every face turned his way. One of the
insulted men, a little tawny fellow, leaped up to confront Gale, and in
a frenzy screamed a volley of Spanish, of which Gale distinguished
"Gringo!" The Mexican stamped and made a threatening move with his
right hand. Dick swung his leg and with a swift side kick knocked the
fellows feet from under him, whirling him down with a thud.
The action was performed so suddenly, so adroitly, it made the Mexican
such a weakling, so like a tumbled tenpin, that the shrill jabbering
hushed. Gale knew this to be the significant moment.
Wheeling, he rushed at Rojas. It was his old line-breaking plunge.
Neither Rojas nor his men had time to move. The black-skinned bandit's
face turned a dirty white; his jaw dropped; he would have shrieked if
Gale had not hit him. The blow swept him backward against his men.
Then Gale's heavy body, swiftly following with the momentum of that
rush, struck the little group of rebels. They went down with table and
chairs in a sliding crash.
Gale carried by his plunge, went with them. Like a cat he landed on
top. As he rose his powerful hands fastened on Rojas. He jerked the
little bandit off the tangled pile of struggling, yelling men, and,
swinging him with terrific force, let go his hold. Rojas slid along
the floor, knocking over tables and chairs. Gale bounded back, dragged
Rojas up, handling him as if he were a limp sack.
A shot rang out above the yells. Gale heard the jingle of breaking
glass. The room darkened perceptibly. He flashed a glance backward.
The two cowboys were between him and the crowd of frantic rebels. One
cowboy held two guns low down, level in front of him. The other had
his gun raised and aimed. On the instant it spouted red and white.
With the crack came the crashing of glass, another darkening shade over
the room. With a cry Gale slung the bleeding Rojas from him. The
bandit struck a table, toppled over it, fell, and lay prone.
Another shot made the room full of moving shadows, with light only back
of the bar. A white-clad figure rushed at Gale. He tripped the man,
but had to kick hard to disengage himself from grasping hands. Another
figure closed in on Gale. This one was dark, swift. A blade
glinted--described a circle aloft. Simultaneously with a close, red
flash the knife wavered; the man wielding it stumbled backward. In the
din Gale did not hear a report, but the Mexican's fall was significant.
Then pandemonium broke loose. The din became a roar. Gale heard shots
that sounded like dull spats in the distance. The big lamp behind the
bar seemingly split, then sputtered and went out, leaving the room in
darkness.
Gale leaped toward the restaurant door, which was outlined faintly by
the yellow light within. Right and left he pushed the groping men who
jostled with him. He vaulted a pool table, sent tables and chairs
flying, and gained the door, to be the first of a wedging mob to
squeeze through. One sweep of his arm knocked the restaurant lamp from
its stand; and he ran out, leaving darkness behind him. A few bounds
took him into the parlor. It was deserted. Thorne had gotten away
with Mercedes.
It was then Gale slowed up. For the space of perhaps sixty seconds he
had been moving with startling velocity. He peered cautiously out into
the plaza. The paths, the benches, the shady places under the trees
contained no skulking men. He ran out, keeping to the shade, and did
not go into the path till he was halfway through the plaza. Under a
street lamp at the far end of the path he thought he saw two dark
figures. He ran faster, and soon reached the street. The uproar back
in the hotel began to diminish, or else he was getting out of hearing.
The few people he saw close at hand were all coming his way, and only
the foremost showed any excitement. Gale walked swiftly, peering ahead
for two figures. Presently he saw them--one tall, wearing a cape; the
other slight, mantled. Gale drew a sharp breath of relief. Thorne and
Mercedes were not far ahead.
From time to time Thorne looked back. He strode swiftly, almost
carrying Mercedes, who clung closely to him. She, too, looked back.
Once Gale saw her white face flash in the light of a street lamp. He
began to overhaul them; and soon, when the last lamp had been passed
and the street was dark, he ventured a whistle. Thorne heard it, for
he turned, whistled a low reply, and went on. Not for some distance
beyond, where the street ended in open country, did they halt to wait.
The desert began here. Gale felt the soft sand under his feet and saw
the grotesque forms of cactus. Then he came up with the fugitives.
"Dick! Are you--all right?" panted Thorne, grasping Gale.
"I'm--out of breath--but--O.K.," replied Gale.
"Good! Good!" choked Thorne. "I was scared--helpless.... Dick, it
worked splendidly. We had no trouble. What on earth did you do?"
"I made the row, all right," said Dick.
"Good Heavens! It was like a row I once heard made by a mob. But the
shots, Dick--were they at you? They paralyzed me. Then the yells.
What happened? Those guards of Rojas ran round in front at the first
shot. Tell me what happened."
"While I was rushing Rojas a couple of cowboys shot out the lamplights.
A Mexican who pulled a knife on me got hurt, I guess. Then I think
there was some shooting from the rebels after the room was dark."
"Rushing Rojas?" queried Thorne, leaning close to Dick. His voice was
thrilling, exultant, deep with a joy that yet needed confirmation.
"What did you do to him?"
"I handed him one off side, tackled, then tried a forward pass,"
replied Dick, lightly speaking the football vernacular so familiar to
Thorne.
Thorne leaned closer, his fine face showing fierce and corded in the
starlight. "Tell me straight," he demanded, in thick voice.
Gale then divined something of the suffering Thorne had
undergone--something of the hot, wild, vengeful passion of a lover who
must have brutal truth.
It stilled Dick's lighter mood, and he was about to reply when Mercedes
pressed close to him, touched his hands, looked up into his face with
wonderful eyes. He thought he would not soon forget their beauty--the
shadow of pain that had been, the hope dawning so fugitively.
"Dear lady," said Gale, with voice not wholly steady, "Rojas himself
will hound you no more to-night, nor for many nights."
She seemed to shake, to thrill, to rise with the intelligence. She
pressed his hand close over her heaving breast. Gale felt the quick
throb of her heart.
"Senor! Senor Dick!" she cried. Then her voice failed. But her hands
flew up; quick as a flash she raised her face--kissed him. Then she
turned and with a sob fell into Thorne's arms.
There ensued a silence broken only by Mercedes' sobbing. Gale walked
some paces away. If he were not stunned, he certainly was agitated.
The strange, sweet fire of that girl's lips remained with him. On the
spur of the moment he imagined he had a jealousy of Thorne. But
presently this passed. It was only that he had been deeply
moved--stirred to the depths during the last hour--had become conscious
of the awakening of a spirit. What remained with him now was the
splendid glow of gladness that he had been of service to Thorne. And
by the intensity of Mercedes' abandon of relief and gratitude he
measured her agony of terror and the fate he had spared her.
"Dick, Dick, come here!" called Thorne softly. "Let's pull ourselves
together now. We've got a problem yet. What to do? Where to go? How
to get any place? We don't dare risk the station--the corrals where
Mexicans hire out horses. We're on good old U.S. ground this minute,
but we're not out of danger."
As he paused, evidently hoping for a suggestion from Gale, the silence
was broken by the clear, ringing peal of a bugle. Thorne gave a
violent start. Then he bent over, listening. The beautiful notes of
the bugle floated out of the darkness, clearer, sharper, faster.
"It's a call, Dick! It's a call!" he cried.
Gale had no answer to make. Mercedes stood as if stricken. The bugle
call ended. From a distance another faintly pealed. There were other
sounds too remote to recognize. Then scattering shots rattled out.
"Dick, the rebels are fighting somebody," burst out Thorne, excitedly.
"The little federal garrison still holds its stand. Perhaps it is
attacked again. Anyway, there's something doing over the line. Maybe
the crazy Greasers are firing on our camp. We've feared it--in the
dark.... And here I am, away without leave--practically a deserter!"
"Go back! Go back, before you're too late!" cried Mercedes.
"Better make tracks, Thorne," added Gale. "It can't help our
predicament for you to be arrested. I'll take care of Mercedes."
"No, no, no," replied Thorne. "I can get away--avoid arrest."
"That'd be all right for the immediate present. But it's not best for
the future. George, a deserter is a deserter!... Better hurry. Leave
the girl to me till tomorrow."
Mercedes embraced her lover, begged him to go. Thorne wavered.
"Dick, I'm up against it," he said. "You're right. If only I can get
back in time. But, oh, I hate to leave her! Old fellow, you've saved
her! I already owe you everlasting gratitude. Keep out of Casita,
Dick. The U.S. side might be safe, but I'm afraid to trust it at
night. Go out in the desert, up in the mountains, in some safe place.
Then come to me in camp. We'll plan. I'll have to confide in Colonel
Weede. Maybe he'll help us. Hide her from the rebels--that's all."
He wrung Dick's hand, clasped Mercedes tightly in his arms, kissed her,
and murmured low over her, then released her to rush off into the
darkness. He disappeared in the gloom. The sound of his dull
footfalls gradually died away.
For a moment the desert silence oppressed Gale. He was unaccustomed to
such strange stillness. There was a low stir of sand, a rustle of
stiff leaves in the wind. How white the stars burned! Then a coyote
barked, to be bayed by a dog. Gale realized that he was between the
edge of an unknown desert and the edge of a hostile town. He had to
choose the desert, because, though he had no doubt that in Casita there
were many Americans who might befriend him, he could not chance the
risks of seeking them at night.
He felt a slight touch on his arm, felt it move down, felt Mercedes
slip a trembling cold little hand into his. Dick looked at her. She
seemed a white-faced girl now, with staring, frightened black eyes that
flashed up at him. If the loneliness, the silence, the desert, the
unknown dangers of the night affected him, what must they be to this
hunted, driven girl? Gale's heart swelled. He was alone with her. He
had no weapon, no money, no food, no drink, no covering, nothing except
his two hands. He had absolutely no knowledge of the desert, of the
direction or whereabouts of the boundary line between the republics; he
did not know where to find the railroad, or any road or trail, or
whether or not there were towns near or far. It was a critical,
desperate situation. He thought first of the girl, and groaned in
spirit, prayed that it would be given him to save her. When he
remembered himself it was with the stunning consciousness that he could
conceive of no situation which he would have exchanged for this
one--where fortune had set him a perilous task of loyalty to a friend,
to a helpless girl.
"Senor, senor!" suddenly whispered Mercedes, clinging to him. "Listen!
I hear horses coming!"