THE TEXAN TAKES A LONG JOURNEY
Pasquale was as good as his word. He arranged that Yeager should see the
function from first to last. The wounded man, his hands tied behind his
back, heavily guarded, was in the front row of the crowd which lined the
short walk between the headquarters of the general and the little adobe
church. The petty officer in command told him that after the bridal
procession had passed he was to be taken into the balcony of the church
for the ceremony.
"And afterward, while Gabriel makes love to the muchacha, the Gringo
Yeager will learn what it means to displease the Liberator," promised
the brown man with a twinkle of cruel little eyes.
Steve gave no sign that he heard. He understood perfectly that the
ingenuity of Pasquale would make the day one long succession of tortures
for him. It was up to him to mask his face and manner with the stoicism
of an Apache.
At a little distance he saw Farrar and Threewit, both of them very
anxious and pale. He would have called a greeting to them except that he
was afraid it might prejudice their chances.
Captain Holcomb passed in front of him and stopped.
"Mornin', Steve," he said.
"Mornin', captain." The haggard eyes of the cowpuncher asked a question
before his lips framed it. "Can't you do anything for the little girl?
Has this hellish thing got to go through?"
"The prisoner will keep silent," snapped the Mexican sergeant.
Holcomb looked at the man with eyes of chill authority. "When I speak to
the prisoner he answers. Understand?"
"Si, señor," muttered the sergeant, taken aback. "But the general
said--"
"Forget it," cut in the Texan crisply. He turned to Yeager and spoke
deliberately, looking straight at him. "Pasquale is going through with
this thing. Just as sure as the old reprobate is alive the padre will
marry your little friend to him within half an hour."
Was Captain Holcomb giving him a message? Steve did not know. It seemed
to him that there was some hidden meaning in the long look of the steady
eyes.
The soldier nodded curtly and turned away. The Texan was dressed with
unusual care. He was wearing tanned boots newly polished and the trim
khaki uniform of an officer of the United States Army. Looking at him,
Yeager thought he had never seen a finer figure of a man. He carried
himself with the light firmness of a trained soldier.
The cowpuncher was puzzled. Had Holcomb an ace up his sleeve? If so,
what could it be? He had said that the marriage would be pushed through
_just as sure as Pasquale was alive_. Had there been the slightest
emphasis on that part of the sentence? Steve was not certain. It had
struck him that the captain's soft voice had lingered on the words, but
that might have been fancy. Yet he could not escape the feeling that
something tragic was impending.
The chattering of the peons crowded in the road died away as if at a
signal. From the other end of the line rose a shout. "Viva Pasquale!
Viva Pasquale!"
Troopers pushed through and opened up a lane.
The general was for once in full uniform. Evidently he had just come
from the hands of a barber. His fierce mustache and eyebrows had been
trimmed and subdued. He smiled broadly as he bowed to the plaudits of
his men.
Then he turned and Steve caught sight of the bride. Colorless to the
lips, she trembled as she moved forward, her eyes on the ground.
It was as if some bell rang within her to tell of the presence of her
lover. Ruth raised her big sad eyes and they met those of Steve. Her
lips framed his name soundlessly. She seemed to lean toward him,
straining from Pasquale, whose arm supported her.
Somehow she broke free and flung herself toward the man she loved. Her
arms fastened around his neck. With a shivering sob she clung tightly to
him.
Pasquale, his eyes stabbing with brutal rage, dragged her back and held
her wrist in his sinewy brown hand. His teeth were clenched, the veins
in his temples swollen. He glared at the cowpuncher as if he would like
to murder him on the spot.
The padre touched Gabriel on the arm. With a start the Liberator came to
himself. The procession moved forward again. Not a word had been spoken,
but Pasquale's golden smile had vanished. The fingernails of his
clenched fist bit savagely into the palm of his hand.
From the procession Culvera saluted Yeager ironically. "Buenos and
adios, señor."
The man to whom he spoke did not even know the Mexican was there. His
eyes and his mind were following the girl who was being driven to her
doom.
From out of the crowd edging the walk a man stepped. It was Adam
Holcomb. He stood directly in front of Pasquale and his bride, blocking
the way. There was a strange light in his eyes. It was as if he looked
from the present far into the future, as if somehow he were a god, an
Olympian who held in his hand the shears of destiny.
The general, still furious, flung an angry look at him. "Well?" he
demanded harshly.
"I want to ask the lady a question, general."
Impatient rage boiled out of Pasquale in an imperious gesture of his
arm. "Afterward, captain. You shall ask her a hundred. Move aside."
"I'll ask it now. This wedding doesn't go on until I hear from the young
lady that she is willing," he announced.
Ruth tried to run forward to him, but the iron grip of the Mexican
stayed her. "Save me," she cried.
"By God! I will."
"Arrest that man," ordered Pasquale in a passion.
At the same time he pushed Ruth from him into the crowd that lined the
path. The brown fingers of the Mexican chief closed upon the handle of
his revolver.
"Here's where I go on a long journey," the Texan cried.
He dragged out an army forty-five. Pasquale and he fired at the same
instant. The Mexican clutched at his heart and swayed back into the
crowd. Holcomb staggered, but recovered himself. He faced the other
Mexican officers, tossed away his revolver, and folded his arms.
"Whenever you are ready, gentlemen," he said quietly.
Ramon Culvera was the first to recover. From his automatic revolver he
flung a bullet into the straight, erect figure facing him. The others
crowded forward and fired into the body as it began to sink. The Texan
gave a sobbing sigh. Before his knees reached the ground he was dead.
The suddenness of the tragedy, its unexpectedness, held the crowd with
suspended breath. What was to follow? Was this the beginning of a
massacre? Each man looked at his neighbor. Another moment might bring
forth anything.
With a bound Ramon vaulted to the saddle of a horse standing near. His
sword made a half-circle of steel as it swept through the air. From
where he sat he could be seen by all.
"Brothers of the Legion, patriots all, let none become excited. I have
killed with my own hand the traitor who shot our beloved leader. Gabriel
Pasquale is dead, but our country lives. Viva Mexico!"
The answer came from thousands of brown, upturned faces. "Viva Mexico!
Viva Culvera!"
The young officer swung the sword around his head. His eyes flashed.
"Gracias. Friends, I solemnly pledge my life to the great cause of the
people. Our hero is dead. We mourn him and devote ourselves anew to the
principles for which he fought. Never shall I lay down this sword until
I have won for you the rights of a free nation. I promise you land for
all, wealth for all, freedom from tyranny. Down with all the foes of the
poor."
Again the shouts rang out, this time louder and clearer. Already these
simple, childlike peons were answering the call of their new master. Old
Pasquale, who for years had held their lives in the hollow of his hand,
lay crumpled on the ground almost forgotten. A new star was shining in
their firmament.
"We shall march to Mexico, down the usurper, and distribute the stolen
wealth of him and his pampered minions among the people to whom it
belongs. Every Mexican shall have a house, land, cattle. He shall be the
slave of none. His children shall be fed. We shall have peace and
plenty. I, Ramon Culvera, swear it. Mexico for the Mexicans."
Culvera was an orator. His resonant voice stirred the emotions of this
ragged mob that under the leadership of Pasquale had been hammered into
an army efficient enough to defeat well-armed regulars. The men pressed
closer to listen. Their primitive faces reflected the excitement the
speaker stirred in them. They interrupted with shouts and cheers.
Others among the officers had ambitions for leadership, but they knew
now that Ramon had made the moment his and forestalled them. He had won
the army over to him.
He spoke briefly, but he took pains to see that no other speaker
followed him. The plaudits for "General Culvera" rang like sweet music
in his ears. They told him that he had at a bound passed the officers
who ranked him and was already in effect chief of the Army of the North.
Briefly he gave directions for the care of the body of the dead general
and for the safety of the American prisoners pending a disposition of
their cases. Before dismissing the army, he called an immediate
conference of the officers.
Resolved to strike while the iron was hot, Culvera took charge of the
meeting of officers and proposed at once the election of a general to
succeed Pasquale. His associates were taken by surprise. They looked out
of the windows and saw pacing up and down the armed sentries Ramon had
set. They heard still an occasional distant cheer for the new leader.
Given time, they might have organized an opposition. But Culvera drove
them to instant decision. They faced the imperious will of a man who
would stick at nothing to satisfy his ambition.
Moreover, Ramon was popular. He was of a good family, democratic in
manner, never arrogant on the surface to his equals. It had been his
object to make friends against the possibility of just such a
contingency. Most of the officers liked, even though they did not fully
trust him. They recognized that he had the necessary confidence in
himself for success and also the touch of dramatic genius that may make
of a soldier a public idol.
For which reasons they submitted to his domination and elected him
successor of Pasquale as commander of the Legion of the North. Whereupon
Ramon unburdened himself of another fiery oration of patriotism full of
impossible pledges.
The newly chosen general sent an orderly out to proclaim the day a
holiday and to see that mescal was served to all the men in honor of the
event. After which the conference discussed the fate of the American
prisoners.