It was June and the wind-storms which had swept in from the southeast
died away. No more, as in the months that had passed, did the
dust-pillar rise from the dump of the Fortuna mill and go swirling up
the cañon.
A great calm and heat settled over the harassed land, and above the far
blue wall of the Sierras the first thunder-caps of the rainy season
rose up till they obscured the sky. Then, with a rush of conflicting
winds, a leaden silence, and a crash of flickering light, the storm
burst in tropic fury and was gone as quickly as it had come.
So, while the rich landowners of the hot country sat idle and watched
it grow, another storm gathered behind the distant Sierras; and, as
empty rumors lulled them to a false security, suddenly from the north
came the news of dashing raids, of railroads cut, troops routed, and
the whole border occupied by swarming rebels.
In a day the southern country was isolated and cut off from escape
and, while the hordes of Chihuahua _insurrectos_ laid siege to Agua
Negra, the belated Spanish _haciendados_ came scuttling once more to
Fortuna. There, at least, was an American town where the courage of the
Anglo-Saxon would protect their women in extremity. And, if worst came
to worst, it was better to pay ransom to red-flag generals than to fall
victims to bandits and looters.
As the bass roar of the great whistle reverberated over the hills
Bud Hooker left his lonely camp almost gladly, and with his hard-won
gold-dust safe beneath his belt, went galloping into town.
Not for three weeks--not since he received the wire from Phil and
located the Eagle Tail mine--had he dared to leave his claim.
_Rurales_, outlaws, and Mexican patriots had dropped in from day to day
and eaten up most of his food, but none of them had caught him napping,
and he had no intention that they should.
A conspiracy had sprung up to get rid of him, to harry him out of
the country, and behind it was Aragon. But now, with the big whistle
blowing, Aragon would have other concerns.
He had his wife and daughter, the beautiful Gracia, to hurry to the
town, and perhaps the thought of being caught and held for ransom
would deter him from stealing mines. So reasoned Bud, and, dragging a
reluctant pack-animal behind him, he came riding in for supplies.
At the store he bought flour and coffee and the other things which he
needed most. As he was passing by the hotel Don Juan de Dios halted him
for a moment, rushing out and thrusting a bundle of letters into his
hands and hurrying back into the house, as if fearful of being detected
in such an act of friendship.
Long before he had lost his pardner Bud had decided that Don Juan was
a trimmer, a man who tried to be all things to all people--as a good
hotel-keeper should--but now he altered his opinion a little, for the
letters were from Phil. He read them over in the crowded plaza, into
which the first refugees were just beginning to pour, and frowned as he
skimmed through the last.
Of Gracia and vain protestations of devotion there was enough and to
spare, but nothing about the mine. Only in the first one, written on
the very day he had deserted, did he so much as attempt an excuse for
so precipitately abandoning their claim and his Mexican citizenship.
Phil wrote:
My mail was being sent through headquarters and looked over by Del
Rey, so I knew I would never receive the papers, even if they came. I
hope you don't feel hard about it, pardner. Kruger says to come out
right away. I would have stayed with it, but it wasn't any use. And
now, Bud, I want to ask you something. When you come out, bring Gracia
with you. Don't leave her at the mercy of Del Rey. I would come myself
if it wasn't sure death. Be quick about it, Bud; I count on you.
The other letters were all like that, but nothing about the mine. And
yet it was the mine that Bud was fighting for--that they had fought for
from the first. The railroad was torn up now, and a flight with Gracia
was hopeless, but it was just as well, for he never would abandon the
Eagle Tail.
In two months, or three, when the rebels were whipped off, his papers
might come. Then he could pay his taxes and transfer his title and
consider the stealing of Gracia. But since he had seen her and touched
her hand something held him back--a grudging reluctance--and he was
glad that his duty lay elsewhere. If she was his girl now he would come
down and get her anyway.
But she was not his girl and, gazing back grimly at the seething plaza
and the hotel that hid her from sight, he rode somberly down the road.
After all, there was nothing to get excited about--every _revoltoso_
in the country was lined up around Agua Negra and, with four hundred
soldiers to oppose them and artillery to shell their advance, it would
be many a long day before they took that town.
Twice already Agua Negra had fallen before such attacks, but now it
was protected by rifle-pits and machine guns set high on mud roofs.
And then there were the Yaquis, still faithful to Madero. They alone
could hold the town, if they made up their minds to fight. So reasoned
Hooker, mulling over the news that he had heard. But he watched the
ridges warily, for the weather was good for raiders.
A day passed, and then another, and the big whistle blew only for the
shifts; the loneliness of the hills oppressed him as he gazed out at
the quivering heat. And then, like a toad after a shower, Amigo came
paddling into camp on the heels of a thunderstorm, his sandals hung on
his hip and his big feet squelching through the mud.
Across his shoulders he wore a gay serape, woven by some patient woman
of his tribe; and in the belt beside Bud's pistol he carried a heavy
knife, blacksmithed from a ten-inch file by some Yaqui hillman. All in
all, he was a fine barbarian, but he looked good to the lonely Bud.
"_Ola_, Amigo!" he hailed, stepping out from the adobe house where he
had moved to avoid the rains; and Amigo answered with his honest smile
which carried no hint of savagery or deceit.
Try as he would, Bud could not bring himself to think of his Yaqui as
dangerous; and even when he balanced the Indian's murderous bowie-knife
in his hands he regarded it with a grin. It was a heavy weapon, broad
across the back, keen on one edge, and drawn to a point that was both
sharp and strong. The haft was wrapped with rawhide to hold the clutch
of the hand.
"What do you do with this?" queried Hooker. "Chop wood? Skin deer?"
"Yes, chop wood!" answered Amigo, but he replaced it carefully in his
belt.
He looked the adobe house over thoughtfully, listened long to the news
of the border and of the _rurales_' raid on their camp, and retired to
the rocks for the night. Even Bud never knew where he slept--somewhere
up on the hillside--in caves or clefts in the rocks--and not even the
most pressing invitation could make him share the house for a night. To
Amigo, as to an animal, a house was a trap; and he knew that the times
were treacherous.
So indeed they were, as Hooker was to learn to his sorrow, and but for
the Yaqui and his murderous knife he might easily have learned it too
late.
It was evening, after a rainless day, and Bud was cooking by the open
fire, when suddenly Amigo vanished and four men rode in from above.
They were armed with rifles, as befitted the times, but gave no signs
of ruffianly bravado, and after a few words Bud invited them to get
down and eat.
"_Muchas gracias, señor_," said the leader, dismounting and laying his
rifle against a log, "we are not hungry."
"Then have some coffee," invited Hooker, who made it a point to feed
everyone who stopped, regardless of their merit; and once more the
Mexican declined. At this Bud looked at him sharply, for his refusal
did not augur well, and it struck him the man's face was familiar. He
was tall for a Mexican and heavily built, but with a rather sinister
cast of countenance.
"Where have I seen you before?" asked Bud, after trying in vain to
place him. "In Fortuna?"
"No, _señor_," answered the Mexican politely. "I have never been in
that city. Is it far?"
"Ten miles by the trail," responded Hooker, by no means reassured, and
under pretext of inviting them to eat, he took a look at the other men.
If they had not stopped to eat, what then was their errand while the
sun was sinking so low? And why this sullen refusal of the coffee which
every Mexican drinks?
Bud stepped into the house, as if on some errand, and watched them
unseen from the interior. Seeing them exchange glances then, he leaned
his rifle just inside the door and went about his cooking.
It was one of the chances he took, living out in the brush, but he had
come to know this low-browed type of semi-bandit all too well and had
small respect for their courage. In case of trouble Amigo was close
by in the rocks somewhere, probably with his gun in his hand--but with
a little patience and circumspection the unwelcome visitors would
doubtless move on.
So he thought, but instead they lingered, and when supper was cooked he
decided to go to a show-down--and if they again refused to eat he would
send them on their way.
"_Ven amigos_," he said, spreading out the tin plates for them, "come
and eat!"
The three low-brows glanced at their leader, who had done what little
talking there was so far, and, seized with a sudden animation, he
immediately rose to his feet.
"Many thanks, _señor_," he said with a cringing and specious
politeness. "We have come far and the trail is long, so we will eat.
The times are hard for poor men now--this traitor, Madero, has made
us all hungry. It is by him that we poor working men are driven to
insurrection--but we know that the Americans are our friends. Yes,
_señor_, I will take some of your beans, and thank you."
He filled a plate as he spoke and lifted a biscuit from the oven,
continuing with his false patter while the others fell to in silence.
"Perhaps you have heard, _señor_," he went on, "the saying which is in
the land:"
"_Mucho trabajo,
Poco dinero;
No hay frijoles,
Viva Madero!_"
(Much work,
Little money;
No beans,
Long live Madero!)
"That, in truth, is no jest to the Mexican people. This man has betrayed
us all; he has ruined the country and set brother against brother. And
now, while we starve because the mines are shut down, he gathers his
family about him in the city and lives fat on the money he has stolen."
He ran on in this style, after the fashion of the _revoltosos_, and
by the very commonplace of his fulminations Bud was thrown completely
off his guard. That was the way they all talked, these worthless
bandit-beggars--that and telling how they loved the _Americanos_--and
then, if they got a chance, they would stick a knife in your back.
He listened to the big man with a polite toleration, being careful not
to turn his back, and ate a few bites as he waited, but though it was
coming dusk the Mexicans were in no hurry to depart. Perhaps they hoped
to stop for the night and get him in his sleep. Still they lingered on,
the leader sitting on a log and continuing his harangue.
Then, in the middle of a sentence, and while Bud was bending over the
fire, the Mexican stopped short and leaned to one side. A tense silence
fell, and Hooker was waked from his trance by the warning click of a
gun-lock. Suddenly his mind came back to his guests, and he ducked like
a flash, but even as he went down he heard the hammer _clack!_
The gun had snapped!
Instantly Hooker's hand leaped to his pistol and he fired from the hip
pointblank at the would-be murderer. With a yell to the others, one of
the Mexicans sprang on him from behind and tried to bear him down.
They struggled for a moment while Bud shot blindly with his pistol and
went down fighting.
[Illustration: He threw them about like dogs that hang onto a bear]
Bud was a giant compared to the stunted Mexicans, and he threw them
about like dogs that hang onto a bear. With a man in each hand he
rose to his feet, crushing them down beneath him; then, in despair of
shaking off his rider, he staggered a few steps and hurled himself over
backward into the fire.
A yell of agony followed their fall and, as the live coals bit through
the Mexican's thin shirt, he fought like a cat to get free. Rocks,
pots, and kettles were kicked in every direction, and when Hooker
leaped to his feet the Mexican scrambled up and rushed madly for the
creek.
But, though Bud was free, the battle had turned against him, for in the
brief interval of his fight the other two Mexicans had run for their
guns. The instant he rose they covered him. Their chief, who by some
miracle had escaped Bud's shot, gave a shout for them to halt. Cheated
of his victim at the first, he was claiming the right to kill.
As Hooker stood blinded by the smoke and ashes the fellow took
deliberate aim--and once more his rifle snapped. Then, as the other
Mexicans stood agape, surprised at the failure of the shot, the
cannonlike whang of a Mauser rent the air and the leader crumpled down
in a heap.
An instant later a shrill yell rose from up the cañon and, as the
two Mexicans started and stared, Amigo came dashing in upon them, a
spitting pistol in one hand and his terrible "wood-chopping" knife
brandished high in the other.
In the dusk his eyes and teeth gleamed white, his black hair seemed to
bristle with fury, and the glint of his long knife made a light as he
vaulted over the last rock and went plunging on their track. For, at
the first glance at this huge, pursuing figure the two Mexicans had
turned and bolted like rabbits, and now, as the Yaqui whirled in after
them, Bud could hear them squealing and scrambling as he hunted them
down among the rocks.
It was grim work, too; even for his stomach, but Hooker let the Indian
follow his nature. When Amigo came back from his hunting there was no
need to ask questions. His eyes shone so terribly that Hooker said
nothing, but set about cleaning up camp.
After he had washed the ashes from his eyes, and when the fury had
vanished from Amigo's face, they went as by common consent and gazed at
the body of the chief of the desperados. Even in death his face seemed
strangely familiar; but as Hooker stood gazing at him the Yaqui picked
up his gun.
"Look!" he said, and pointed to a bullet-splash where, as the Mexican
held the gun across his breast, Bud's pistol-shot had flattened
harmlessly against the lock. It was that which had saved the Mexican
chief from instant death, and the jar of the shot had doubtless broken
the rifle and saved Bud, in turn, from the second shot.
All this was in the Yaqui's eye as he carefully tested the action;
but, when he threw down the lever, a cartridge rose up from the
magazine and glided smoothly into the breech. With a rifle full of
cartridges the ignorant Mexican had been snapping on an empty chamber,
not knowing enough to jack up a shell!
For a moment Amigo stared at the gun and the man, and his mouth drew
down with contempt.
"Ha! _Pendejo!_" he grunted, and kicked the corpse with his foot.
But if the Mexican had been a fool, he had paid the price, for the
second time he snapped his gun Amigo had shot him through and through.