IN THE GUEST HOUSE
“Rojerio Rocha! He has escaped them!” Others took up the cry, and
cheers from those along the wall greeted the flying man, cheers of
welcome and encouragement. The Indians on the crest were still firing
at him. He dodged from side to side as he ran. Now he dropped the
white cloth he had carried, glued elbows to his sides, and ran on. He
stumbled, fell, regained his feet.
“Help him!” the _comandante_ cried. “Aid him inside, you men!”
The fugitive crashed against the wall. A musket was let down, and he
grasped it, and they pulled him up and lifted him over--to see him
collapse on the ground breathless, his eyes rolling, clutching at the
breast of his cloak as if it pained him to try to breathe.
“He has been hit!” a fray cried; but the man shook his head. They gave
him wine, and he drank, and gasped until he got his breath.
“The fiends!” he cursed. “They were holding me--expected to torture
me--with Señorita Fernandez--said her father--had been cruel. I
managed--to get free of bonds. They will--attack again!”
Even as he spoke the second attack came. Again a throng of savages
rushed down the slope while others poured a volley at the wall. The
hostiles in the orchard joined in the charge.
They reached the corner of the wall, piled against it, made their way
upward in the face of musket flashes and blades. Shrieking chiefs urged
them on. One by one the defenders crashed to the ground inside. The
ranks closed up. All other parts of the square were abandoned as men
rushed to the threatened corner. The man who had escaped the hostiles
was forgotten.
He got upon his feet and stood against the wall for a moment, clutching
at his breast as if it still pained him to breathe, and then he
tottered toward the storehouse. A jug of water was on the step, and he
lifted it and drank, then staggered inside.
One soldier had remained there to guard, and was standing at the wide
window, musket ready, prepared to fire and give an alarm if the Indians
attempted to gain entrance there. He whirled around as the other man
stumbled against a counter.
“Thank the saints you escaped!” he cried. “It was a close call, Señor
Rocha.”
“A musket,” the other demanded. “Weapon and ammunition! Am I to stand
by idly while others fight?”
The soldier got a musket from the corner and handed it over, and turned
for powder and ball. The man behind him swung the heavy weapon over his
head and crashed it down on the soldier’s skull, and the storehouse
guard was stretched on the floor.
It did not seem to pain him to breathe now, for he was done with
acting. He hurried across to the window and worked frantically to
unfasten the bars. For an instant he leaned out and waved a cloth.
A group of hostiles beside the orchard wall had been waiting for
that signal. Now they ran wildly across the open space--a score of
them--some falling on the way, men from other groups of hostiles
joining them. Shrieking their battle-cries, they poured through the
window the renegade had opened and plunged into the plaza.
At the same time hostiles swarmed over the end of the wall, enough of
them to make a stand. Beset front and rear, the defenders stood back to
back and fought courageously. More men fell. Loyal neophytes had been
slain as they loaded weapons; and there was no time for the remaining
defenders to load now, nothing to do except use muskets as clubs, hurl
pistols in savage faces, and wield swords and poniards.
“The women--the church!” the _comandante_ shrieked to a fray.
It was the first admission that conditions were serious. The fray bowed
his head and joined another, and they hurried across the plaza to the
guest house, where Señora Vallejo was praying in a corner and Señorita
Anita standing at a window watching the combat, a knife clutched in one
hand.
“Quick--the church--it is the last stand!” one of the frailes cried.
The _señora_ got up and hurried to the door, grasping at a fray’s arm,
tears streaming down her cheeks.
“_Señorita_,” the fray called.
“I remain here,” she said.
“The _comandante_ has said you must go to the church.”
“I remain here!”
In her brain was beating the sentence the caballero had spoken--that
she was to remain in the guest house, no matter what transpired. She
was not certain the words had not been a boast. She could not imagine
how a rescue could be made, though she had reason to know he was clever
at rescue work, unless he led the hostiles and intended to save her
after the mission had been taken. But she remembered, too, how he had
declared he was no traitor, and believed in her heart he had spoken
truth.
“This is madness!” one of the frailes cried.
“Go! I remain here!” she answered.
“We must make haste. I’ll return for you, _señorita_!”
The frailes hurried outside with the _señora_ and ran across to the
church. The defenders were retreating across the plaza now, fighting
every foot of the way, backing sullenly but hopelessly and attempting
to carry their wounded with them.
Looking out of the window, Señorita Anita Fernandez knew in her heart
that the frailes would never be able to return across the plaza for
her--that hostiles would be in front of the guest house before they had
placed Señora Vallejo inside the church.
She drew back from the window, still clutching the poniard. She could
not feel much faith in the caballero; saw naught but death before her.
Death self-inflicted if hostiles invaded the guest house and started
to take her prisoner! Death if the caballero appeared with mask thrown
aside and as leader of the hostiles after all! Death if he did not
appear and the traitorous Rojerio Rocha did, and attempted to claim her
as bride! Death--naught but death!
She rushed to the window again and saw that the defenders had been
driven back to the door of the church. The plaza was filled with
shrieking hostiles. Muskets crashed, steel rang. Dead men and wounded
men were scattered over the ground. The storehouse was being looted
even now.
Again she crept back near the fireplace in the wall, and her lips moved
in prayer. The door was thrown open, and she made the poniard ready,
for it was an Indian who stood framed in it for an instant. Then she
gave a glad cry--the Indian was Pedro, the faithful servant.
But the cry died in her throat as she remembered that there was a
possibility that even Pedro had turned hostile now that men of his race
were victors. She gazed wide-eyed as he half closed the door and faced
her.
“I have come for you, _señorita_,” he said. “I noticed you did not go
to the church with the _señora_ and others. But we cannot cross the
plaza now, for it is full of hostiles. We must remain here--and I can
die beside you, _señorita_!”
He turned to close the door and lift the heavy bar across it, but it
was hurled wide open against him, sending him recoiling against the
wall, and another entered.
“You?” Señorita Anita gasped. “You--Rojerio Rocha!”
He made no answer, scarcely looked at her. Whirling upon the neophyte
he pointed toward the open door.
“Out!” he commanded.
For an instant the Indian seemed to flinch with fear; then courage
returned to him, for he thought the man before him misunderstood.
“I am no hostile,” he said proudly. “I came to help protect the
Señorita Anita. Ask her if I have offered harm.”
“Out!” came the command again.
“I am loyal. The hostiles will slay me!”
“Go out, I say!”
The man’s manner seemed to flash a warning to the neophyte. He turned
swiftly and glanced at the _señorita_, and observed that she was
clutching the poniard and staring at the man in horror.
“If the _señorita_ commands--” the neophyte began.
“Will you go out, dog?”
“No--no, Pedro!” the girl implored. “This man----”
But the roar of rage from the throat of the white man drowned the
remainder of her sentence, and the neophyte did not hear. Standing
against the wall he beheld the other man bearing down upon him with
poniard ready.
“I am loyal!” he cried. “I will help you! You do not understand! I am
Pedro, and I have----”
A hand clutched at his throat, the point of the blade was at his
breast. He was hurled to the doorway, staggered, stumbled when the
other man threw weight against him.
“Here is a loyal man--attend to him!” he heard his antagonist shriek.
Then he fell full length into the plaza, and shrieking hostiles rushed
upon him.
“Do not--understand!” he gasped; and died from a pistol shot.
And a laughing renegade hurled the door shut, barred it securely, and
still laughing turned to face the terror-stricken girl crouching at the
corner of the big fireplace.