XXII

The superintendent's house stood on a low bench above the town, looking

out over all the valley, but protected by a high hill behind, upon the

summit of which was placed a mammoth black water-tank.

In its architecture the _casa grande_ was an exact replica of a

hot-country _hacienda_, a flat-roofed, one-storied square of adobe

bricks, whitewashed to keep off the sun and presenting on three

sides nothing but the dead walls of house and garden, with dense

trees planted near for shade. Along the front was a long arcade, the

_corredor_, graced by a series of massive arches which let in the light

and air. Inside were low chambers and long passages; and, behind, the

_patio_ and garden of orange and fig trees.

Built for a sumptuous dwelling, it became in a moment a fort and, with

men on the high hill by the tank, it was practically impregnable to

direct assault.

As Hooker stepped out onto the covered porch with his saddle-gun in

his hand he became simply one more of a band of excited Americans, all

armed and ready to defend the house to the last. Some were pacing back

and forth in the _corredor_, others were hurrying up from the Mexican

quarters with a last belated handful of women, but the major portion

were out on the open bench, either gazing north and south at the

scenes of the distant firing or engaging in a curio-mad scramble for

any spent bullet that struck.

The fighting, such as there was, was mostly up the cañon, where a

large party of Sonoran miners had rushed in pursuit of the rebels. The

firing down the cañon in the direction of Old Fortuna had died away

to nothing, and for the moment if seemed as if the futile charge and

retreat were the beginning and the end of the battle.

A party of rebels had penetrated clear into the town, but it was

apparently more by accident than intention, and they had been quick

to beat a retreat. As for the main command of the _insurrectos_, they

were reported at Chular, six miles up the railroad, where they had

surrounded and taken a small mining camp and captured a train at the

summit.

The column to the south--the one which Hooker had encountered--had

taken to the high hills west of the town, and, along the sky-line of

the buttelike summits, they could now be seen in scattered bands making

their way to the north.

The defenders of Fortuna consisted of a rag-tag garrison of twenty

Federals and the hot-headed, charging miners. But apparently that was a

combination hard to beat, for, while the Federals entrenched themselves

behind the black tank on the hill and prepared to protect the town, the

Sonorans in shouting masses drove everything before them and marched on

to attack Chular.

But in this they made a mistake, for the rebel scouts, seeing the

great body of defenders pressing on up the narrow cañon, rode back and

informed the tricky Bernardo Bravo. He would be a poor general indeed

who could not see the opening that was offered and, while the valiant

Sonorans pursued the rebel cavalry up the pass, Bernardo Bravo sent the

half of his thousand men to cut off their retreat from behind.

Along the broad top of the mountain above they came scampering by tens

and twenties, closing in with a vastly superior force upon the now

defenseless town. In the depths of the cañon below the miners were

still chasing the elusive cavalry, their firing becoming faint as they

clambered on toward the summit and the rebel headquarters at Chular.

They had, in fact, been handled like children, and the Americans joined

in contemptuous curses of their mistaken bravery as they beheld in what

straits it had left them.

Forbidden by the superintendent to participate in the combat, yet

having in their care the women of the camp, they were compelled to

stand passively aside while rebels by the hundred came charging down

the ridges. Only in the last resort, and when all diplomacy and Federal

defense had failed, would they be allowed to so much as cock a rifle.

And yet--well, twenty determined Americans might easily turn back this

charge.

Taking advantage of his Mexican citizenship, Hooker was already on the

run for the trenches when the superintendent stopped him with a look.

"Let the Mexicans fight it out," he said. "They might resent it if you

took sides, and that would make it bad for us. Just wait a while--you

never can tell what will happen. Perhaps the _rurales_ and Federals

will stand them off."

"What, that little bunch?" demanded Bud, pointing scornfully at the

handful of defenders who were cowering behind their rock-piles. "Why,

half of them _pelónes_ don't know what a gun was made for, and the

_rurales_--"

"Well, the rebels are the same," suggested the superintendent

pacifically. "Let them fight it out--we need every American we can get,

so just forget about being a Mexican."

"All right," agreed Bud, as he yielded reluctantly to reason. "It ain't

because I'm a Mexican citizen--I just want to stop that rush."

He walked back to the house, juggling his useless gun and keeping his

eye on the distant ridges. And then, in a chorus of defiant yells, the

men in the Federal trenches began to shoot.

In an air-line the distance was something over a mile, but at the first

scattering volley the rebels halted and fired a volley in return. With

a vicious _spang_ a few stray bullets smashed against the reverberating

steel tank, but no one was hurt, and the defenders, drunk with valor,

began to shoot and yell like mad.

The bullets of the rebels, fired at random, struck up dust-jets in

every direction, and from the lower part of the town came the shouting

of the non-combatant Mexicans as they ran here and there for shelter.

But by the trenches, and in the rear of the black tank, the great

crowd of onlookers persisted, ducking as each successive bullet hit the

tank and shouting encouragement as the defenders emptied their rifles

and reloaded with clip after clip.

The rifles rattled a continuous volley; spent bullets leaped like

locusts across the flat; men ran to and fro, now crouching behind the

tank, now stepping boldly into the open; and the defiant shouts of the

defenders almost drowned the wails of the women. Except for one thing

it was a battle--there was nobody hurt.

For the first half-hour the Americans stayed prudently under cover,

busying themselves at the suggestion of a few American women in

providing a first-aid hospital on the sheltered porch. Then, as no

wounded came to fill it and the rebels delayed their charge, one man

after another climbed up to the trenches, ostensibly to bring down the

injured.

As soldiers and bystanders reported no one hit, and the bullets flew

harmlessly past, their solicitude turned rapidly to disgust and then to

scorn. Strange as it may seem, they were disappointed at the results,

and their remarks were derogatory as they commented on the bravery of

_pelónes_ and Mexicans in general.

From a dread of imminent attack, of charging rebels and retreating

defenders, and a fight to the death by the house, they came suddenly

to a desire for blood and battle, for dead men and the cries of the

wounded; and all fear of the _insurrectos_ left them.

"Come away, boys," grunted the burly roadmaster, who up to then had

led in the work; "we wasted our time on that hospital--there'll be no

wounded. Let's take ourselves back to the house and have a quiet smoke."

"Right you are, Ed," agreed the master mechanic, as he turned upon his

heel in disgust. "This ain't war--them Mexicans think they're working

for a moving-picture show!"

"I bet you I can go up on that ridge," announced Hooker, "and clean out

the whole bunch with my six-shooter before you could bat your eye."

But the superintendent was not so sure.

"Never mind, boys," he said. "We're worth a lot of ransom money to

those rebels and they won't give up so quick. And look at this now--my

miners coming back! Those are the boys that will fight! Wait till Chico

and Ramon Mendoza get after them!"

He pointed as he spoke to a straggling band of Sonorans, led by the

much-vaunted Mendoza brothers, as they hurried to save the town, and a

cheer went up from the trenches as the Federals beheld reenforcements.

But a change had come over the fire-eating miners, and they brought

other rebels in their wake.

As they trudged wearily into town and sought shelter among the houses

a great body of men appeared on the opposite ridge, firing down at

them as they retreated. The battle rapidly turned into a long-distance

shooting contest, with the rebels on the ridges and the defenders in

the valley, and finally, as the day wore on and a thunderstorm came

up, it died out altogether and the rebels turned back to their camp.

Except for one lone Federal who had shot himself by accident there was

not a single defender hurt, and if the enemy had suffered losses it was

only by some such chance. But when the Sonoran patriots, holding up

their empty belts, came clamoring for ammunition, the men by the big

house took in the real catastrophe of the battle.

Seventeen thousand rounds of the precious thirty-thirties had been

delivered to the excited miners and now, except for what few the

Americans had saved, there was not a cartridge in camp. Very soberly

the superintendent assured the leaders that he had no more. They

pointed at the full belts of the American guard and demanded them as

their right; and when the Americans refused to yield they flew into a

rage and threatened.

All in all, it was a pitiful exhibition of hot-headedness and

imbecility, and only the firmness of the superintendent prevented a

real spilling of blood. The Mexicans retired in a huff and broke into

the _cantina_, and as the night came on the valley re-echoed to their

drunken shoutings.

Such was war as the Sonorans conceived it. When Hooker, standing his

guard in the _corredor_, encountered Gracia Aragon on her evening walk,

he could scarcely conceal a grin.

"What are you laughing at, Señor Hooker?" she demanded with asperity.

"Is it so pleasant, with a houseful of frightened women and screaming

children, that you should make fun of our plight?"

"No, indeed," apologized Bud; "nothing like that. Sure must be bad in

there--I stay outside myself. But I reckon it'll soon be over with.

The Mexicans here in town have shot off all their ammunition and I

reckon the rebels have done the same. Like as not they'll all be gone

to-morrow, and then you can go back home."

"Oh, thank you for thinking about me!" she returned with a scornful

curl of the lip. "But if all men were as open as you, Mr. Hooker, we

women would never need to ask a question. This morning you told me I

did not know what I was talking about--now I presume you are thinking

what cowards the Mexicans are!

"Oh, I know! You need not deny it! You are nothing but a great

big--_Tejano_! Yes, I was going to say 'brute,' but you are a friend

of dear Phil's, and so I will hold my tongue. If it wasn't for that,

I'd--" She paused, leaving him to guess.

"Oh, I do wish he were here!" she breathed, leaning wearily against the

white pillar of an arch and gazing down through the long arcade.

"It was so close in there," she continued, "I could not stand it a

minute longer. These Indian women, you know--they weep and moan all

the time. And the children--I am so sorry for them. I cannot go now,

because they need me; but to-morrow--if Phil were here--I would leave

and ride for the line.

"Have you seen Del Rey to-day? No? Then all the better--he must be

policing the town. It is only of him I am afraid. These rebels are

nothing--I agree with you! No! I am not angry with you at all now! But

to-morrow, just at dusk, when all is still as it is at this time; then,

if Phil were here, I would mount my brave horse and ride out by the

western pass."

She ended rather inconclusively, letting her voice trail off wistfully

as she waited for him to speak, but something within moved Hooker to

hold his peace, and he looked out over the town without commenting on

her plans. It was evident to him that she was determined to enlist

his sympathy and involve him in her wild plot, and each time the

conversation veered in that direction he took refuge in a stubborn

silence.

"What are you thinking, Mr. Hooker?" she asked at last, as he gazed

into the dusk. "Sometimes I scold you and sometimes I try to please

you, but I never know what you think! I did not mean that when I said I

could read your thoughts--you are so different from poor, dear Phil!"

"M-m-m," mumbled Bud, shifting his feet, and his face turned a little

grim.

"Aha!" she cried with ill-concealed satisfaction, "you do not like me

to call him that, do you? 'Poor, dear Phil,'--like that! But do you

know why I do it? It is to punish you for never coming near me--when

I signed to you--when I waited for you--long ago! Ah, you were so

cruel! I wanted to know you--you were a cowboy, and I thought you were

brave enough to defend me--but you always rode right by. Yes, that was

it--but Phil was different! He came when I sent for him; he sang songs

to me at night; he took my part against Manuel del Rey; and now--"

"Yes!" commented Bud bruskly, with his mind on "dear Phil's" finish,

and she turned to peer into his face.

"So that is it!" she said. "You do not trust me. You think that I am

not your friend--that I will serve you as he was served. Is that what

you are thinking?"

"Something like that," admitted Hooker, leaning lazily against the mud

wall. "Only I reckon I don't think just the way you do."

"Why? How do I think?" she demanded eagerly.

"Well, you think awful fast," answered Hooker slowly. "And you don't

always think the same, seems like. I'm kind of quiet myself, and I

don't like--well, I wouldn't say that, but you don't always mean what

you say."

"Oh!" breathed Gracia, and then, after a pause, she came nearer and

leaned against the low wall beside him.

"If I would speak from my heart," she asked, "if I would talk plain, as

you Americans do, would you like me better then? Would you talk to me

instead of standing silent? Listen, Bud--for that is your name--I want

you to be my friend the way you were a friend to Phil. I know what you

did for him, and how you bore with his love-madness--and that was my

fault, too. But partly it was also your fault, for you made me angry by

not coming.

"Yes, I will be honest now--it was you that I wanted to know at

first, but you would not come, and now I am promised to Phil. He was

brave when you were careful, and my heart went out to him. You know

how it is with us Mexicans--we do not love by reason. We love like

children--suddenly--from the heart! And now all I wish in life is to

run away to Phil. But every time I speak of it you shut your jaws or

tell me I am a fool."

"Ump-um," protested Bud, turning stubborn again. "I tell you you don't

know what you're talking about. These rebels don't amount to nothing

around the town, but on a trail they're awful. They shoot from behind

rocks and all that, and a woman ain't no ways safe. You must know what

they're like--these old women don't think about nothing else--so what's

the use of talking? And besides," he added grimly, "I've had some

trouble with your old man and don't want to have any more."

"What trouble have you had?" she demanded promptly, but Hooker would

not answer in words. He only shrugged his shoulders and turned away,

crumpling his hat in his hand.

"But no!" she cried as she sensed the meaning of his concealment, "you

must tell me! I want to know. Was it over your mine? Then you must not

blame me, for he never has told me a word!"

"No?" inquired Bud, rousing suddenly at the memory of his wrongs. "Then

maybe you will tell me how he got _this_"--he fetched a worn piece of

ore from his pocket--"when my pardner gave it to _you_! It was right

there I lost my pardner--and he was a good kid, too--and all because of

that rock. Here, take a look at it--I took that away from your father!"

"Then he stole it from me!" flashed back Gracia as she gazed at the

specimen. "Oh, have you thought all the time that I betrayed Phil? But

didn't I tell you--didn't I tell you at the hotel, when you promised

to be my friend? Ah, I see that you are a hard man, Mr. Hooker--quick

to suspect, slow to forget--and yet I told you before! But listen, and

I will tell you again. I remember well when dear Phil showed me this

rock--he was so happy because he had found the gold. And just to make

it lucky he let me hold it while we were talking through a hole in the

wall. Then my father saw me and started to come near--I could not hand

it back without betraying Phil--and in the night, when I was asleep,

some one took it from under my pillow. That is the truth, and I will

ask you to believe me; and if you have other things against me you must

say what they are and see if I cannot explain.

"No!" she ran on, her voice vibrant with the memory of past quarrels.

"I have nothing to do with my father! He does not love me, but tries

to make me marry first one man and then another. But I am an American

girl now, at heart--I do not want to sell myself; I want to marry for

love! Can you understand that? Yes? No? Then why do you look away? Have

you something that you hold against me? Ah, you shake your head--but

you will not speak to me! When I was at school in Los Angeles I saw

the cowboys in the West show, and they were different--they were not

afraid of any danger, but they would talk, too. I have always wanted to

know you, but you will not let me--I thought you were brave--like those

cowboys."

She paused to make him speak, but Hooker was tongue-tied. There was

something about the way she talked that pulled him over, that made him

want to do what she said, and yet some secret, hidden voice was always

crying: "Beware!" He was convinced now that she had never been a party

to treachery; no, nor even wished him ill.

She was very beautiful, too, in the twilight, and when she drew nearer

he moved away, for he was afraid she would sway him from his purpose.

But now she was waiting for some answer--some word from him, though the

question had never been asked. And yet he knew what it was.

She wanted him to steal away with her in the evening and ride for the

border--and Phil. That was what she always wanted, no matter what she

said, and now she was calling him a coward.

"Sure them bronco-riders are brave," he said in vague defense; "but

there's a difference between being brave and foolish. And a man might

be brave for himself and yet be afraid for other people."

"How do you mean?" she asked.

"Well," he said, "I might be willing to go out and fight a thousand of

them _insurrectos_ with one hand, and at the same time be afraid to

take you along. Or I might--"

"Oh, then you _will_ go, won't you?" she cried, clasping him by the

hand. "You will, won't you? I'm not afraid!"

"No," answered Bud, drawing his hand away, "that's just what I won't

do! And I'll tell you why. That country up there is full of rebels--the

lowest kind there are. It just takes one shot to lay me out or cripple

one of our horses. Then I'd have to make a fight for it--but what would

happen to you?"

"I'd fight, too!" spoke up Gracia resolutely. "I'm not afraid."

"No," grumbled Bud, "you don't know them rebels. You've been shut up in

a house all the time--if you'd been through what I have in the last six

months you'd understand what I mean."

"If Phil were here, _he'd_ take me!" countered Gracia, and then Bud

lost his head.

"Yes," he burst out, "that's jest what's the matter with the crazy

fool! That's jest why he's up across the line now a hollering for me to

save his girl! He's brave, is he? Well, why don't he come down, then,

and save you himself? Because he's afraid to! He's afraid of getting

shot or going up against Manuel del Rey. By grab! it makes me tired the

way you people talk! If he'd done what I told him to in the first place

he wouldn't have got into this jack-pot!"

"Oh, my!" exclaimed Gracia, aghast. "Why, what is the matter with you?

And what did you tell him to do?"

"I told him to mind his own business," answered Hooker bluntly.

"And what did he say?"

"He said he'd try anything--once!"

Bud spat out the phrase vindictively, for his blood was up and his

heart was full of bitterness.

"Oh, dear!" faltered Gracia. "And so you do not think that Phil is

brave?"

"He's brave to start things," sneered Bud, "but not to carry 'em

through!"

For a moment Gracia huddled up against a pillar, her hand against her

face, as if to ward off a blow. Then she lowered it slowly and moved

reluctantly away.

"I must go now," she said, and Bud did not offer to stay her, for he

saw what his unkindness had done.

"I am sorry!" she added pitifully, but he did not answer. There was

nothing that he could say now.

In a moment of resentment, driven to exasperation by her taunts, he had

forgotten his pledge to his pardner and come between him and his girl.

That which he thought wild horses could not draw from him had flashed

out in a fit of anger--and the damage was beyond amendment, for what he

had said was the truth.