XXIII

There are two things, according to the saying, which cannot be

recalled--the sped arrow and the spoken word. Whether spoken in anger

or in jest our winged thoughts will not come back to us and, where

there is no balm for the wound we have caused, there is nothing to do

but let it heal.

Bud Hooker was a man of few words, and slow to speak ill of any one,

but some unfamiliar devil had loosened his tongue and he had told the

worst about Phil. Certainly if a man were the bravest of the brave,

certainly if he loved his girl more than life itself--he would not be

content to hide above the line and pour out his soul on note-paper. But

to tell it to the girl--that was an unpardonable sin!

Still, now that the damage was done, there was no use of vain repining,

and after cursing himself whole-heartedly Bud turned in for the night.

Other days were coming; there were favors he might do; and perhaps,

as the yesterdays went by, Gracia would forgive him for his plain

speaking. Even to-morrow, if the rebels came back for more, he might

square himself in action and prove that he was not a coward. A coward!

It had been a long time since any one had used that word to him, but

after the way he had knifed "dear Phil" he had to admit he was it. But

"dear Phil"! It was that which had set him off.

If she knew how many other girls--but Bud put a sudden quietus on that

particular line of thought. As long as the world stood and Gracia was

in his sight he swore never to speak ill of De Lancey again, and then

he went to sleep.

The men who guarded the _casa grande_ slept uneasily on the porch,

lying down like dogs on empty sugar-sacks that the women might not

lack bedding inside. Even at that they were better off, for the house

was close and feverish, with the crying of babies and the babbling of

dreamers, and mothers moving to and fro.

It was a hectic night, but Bud slept it out, and at dawn, after the

custom of his kind, he arose and stamped on his boots. The moist

coolness of the morning brought the odor of wet greasewood and tropic

blossoms to his nostrils as he stepped out to speak with the guards,

and as he stood there waiting for the full daylight the master mechanic

joined him.

He was a full-bodied, round-headed little man with determined views

on life, and he began the day, as usual, with his private opinion of

Mexicans. They were the same uncomplimentary remarks to which he had

given voice on the day before, for the rebels had captured one of his

engines and he knew it would come to some harm.

"A fine bunch of _hombres_, yes," he ended, "and may the devil fly

away with them! They took No. 9 at the summit yesterday and I've been

listening ever since. Her pans are all burned out and we've been

feeding her bran like a cow to keep her from leaking steam. If some

ignorant Mex gets hold of her you'll hear a big noise--and that'll be

the last of No. 9--her boiler will burst like a wet bag.

"If I was running this road there'd be no more bran--not since what I

saw over at Aguas Calientes on the Central. One of those bum, renegade

engine-drivers had burned out No. 743, but the rebels had ditched four

of our best and we had to send her out. Day after day the boys had been

feeding her bran until she smelled like a distillery. The mash was

oozing out of her as Ben Tyrrell pulled up to the station, and a friend

of his that had come down from the north took one sniff and swung up

into the cab.

"Ben came down at the word he whispered--for they'd two of 'em blowed

up in the north--and they sent out another man. Hadn't got up the

hill when the engine exploded and blew the poor devil to hell! I

asked Tyrrell what his friend had told him, but he kept it to himself

until he could get his time. It's the fumes, boy--they blow up like

brandy--and old No. 9 is sour!

"She'll likely blow up, too. But how can we fix her with these ignorant

Mexican mechanics? You should have been over at Aguas the day they

fired the Americans.

"'No more _Americanos_!' says Madero. 'Let 'em all out and hire

Mexicans! The national railroads of Mexico must not be in the hands of

foreigners.'

"So they fired us all in a day and put a Mexican wood-passer up in the

cab of old No. 313. He started to pull a string of empties down the

track, threw on the air by mistake, and stopped her on a dead-center.

Pulled out the throttle and she wouldn't go, so he gave it up and quit.

"Called in the master mechanic then--a Mexican. He tinkered with her

for an hour, right there on the track, until she went dead on their

hands. Then they ran down a switch-engine and took back the cars and

called on the roadmaster--a Mex. He cracked the nut--built a shoo-fly

around No. 313 and they left her right there on the main track. Two

days later an American hobo came by and he set down and laughed at 'em.

Then he throws off the brakes, gives No. 313 a boost past the center

with a crowbar, and runs her to the roundhouse by gravity. When we left

Aguas on a hand-car that hobo was running the road.

"Ignorantest _hombres_ in the world--these Mexicans. Shooting a gun or

running an engine, it's all the same--they've got nothing above the

eyebrows."

"That's right," agreed Bud, who had been craning his neck; "but what's

that noise up the track?"

The master mechanic listened, and when his ears, dulled by the clangor

of the shops, caught the distant roar he turned and ran for the house.

"Git up, Ed!" he called to the roadmaster. "They're sending a wild car

down the cañon--and she may be loaded with dynamite!"

"Dynamite or not," mumbled the grizzled roadmaster, as he roused up

from his couch, "there's a derailer I put in up at kilometer seventy

the first thing yesterday morning. That'll send her into the ditch!"

Nevertheless he listened intently, cocking his head to guess by the

sound when it came to kilometer seventy.

"Now she strikes it!" he announced, as the rumble turned into a roar;

but the roar grew louder, there was a clash as the trucks struck a

curve, and then a great metal ore-car swung round the point, rode up

high as it hit the reverse and, speeding by as if shot from a catapult,

swept through the yard, smashed into a freight-car, and leaped, car and

all, into the creek.

"They've sneaked my derailer!" said the roadmaster, starting on a run

for the shops. "Who'll go with me to put in another one? Or we'll

loosen a rail on the curve--that'll call for no more than a claw-bar

and a wrench!"

"I'll go!" volunteered Bud and the man who stood guard, and as startled

sleepers roused up on every side and ran toward the scene of the wreck

they dashed down the hill together and threw a hand-car on the track.

Then, with what tools they could get together, and a spare derailer on

the front, they pumped madly up the cañon, holding their breaths at

every curve for fear of what they might see. If there was one runaway

car there was another, for the rebels were beginning an attack.

Already on the ridges above them they could hear the crack of rifles,

and a jet or two of dust made it evident that they were the mark. But

with three strong men at the handles they made the hand-car jump. The

low hills fled behind them. They rounded a point and the open track lay

before them, with something--

"Jump!" shouted the roadmaster, and as they tumbled down the bank

they heard a crash behind them and their hand-car was knocked into

kindling-wood.

"Now up to the track!" the roadmaster panted, as the destroyer swept on

down the line. "Find some tools--we'll take out a rail!"

With frantic eagerness he toiled up the fill and attacked a fish-plate,

and Bud and the young guard searched the hillside for tools to help

with the work. They fell to with sledge and claw-bar, tapping off nuts,

jerking out spikes, and heaving to loosen the rail--and then once more

that swift-moving something loomed up suddenly on the track.

"Up the hill!" commanded the roadmaster, and as they scrambled into a

gulch a wild locomotive, belching smoke and steam like a fire-engine,

went rushing past them, struck the loose rail, and leaped into the

creek-bed. A moment later, as it crashed its way down to the water,

there was an explosion that shook the hills. They crouched behind the

cut bank, and the trees above them bowed suddenly to the slash of an

iron hail.

"Dynamite!" cried the roadmaster, grinning triumphantly as he looked up

after the shock; and when the fall of fragments had ceased, and they

had fled as if by instinct from the place, they struck hands on their

narrow escape. But back at the big house, with everybody giving thanks

for their delivery from the powder-train, the master mechanic raised a

single voice of protest.

"'Twas not dynamite!" he yelled. "Powder-train be damned! It was No. 9!

She was sour as a distillery! She blowed up, I tell ye--she blowed up

when she hit the creek!"

And even after a shower of bullets from the ridge had driven them all

to cover he still rushed to those who would listen and clamored that it

was the bran.

But there was scant time to hold a post-mortem on No. 9, for on the

summit of a near-by ridge, and overlooking the black tank, the rebels

had thrown up a wall in the night, and from the security of this

shelter they were industriously shooting up the town.

The smash of the first wild car had been their signal for attack, and

as the explosion threw the defenders into confusion they made a rush to

take the tank. Here, as on the day before, was stationed the Federal

garrison, a scant twenty or thirty men in charge of a boy lieutenant.

Being practically out of ammunition, he did not stand on the order of

his going, but as his _pelónes_ pelted past the superintendent's house

the reorganized miners, their belts stuffed with cartridges from their

own private stock, came charging up from the town and rallied them in

the rear.

In a solid, shouting mass they swept up the hill together, dropped

down behind the defenses, and checked the astounded rebels with a

volley. Then there was another long-range battle, with every sign of

war but the dead, until at last, as the firing slackened from lack of

cartridges, a white flag showed on the ridge above, and the leaders

went out for a parley.

Properly speaking, Del Rey was in command of the town, but neither

the Federals nor the miners would recognize his authority and the

leadership went by default. While they waited to hear the rebel demands

the Americans took advantage of the truce to bring up hot food from the

hotel, where Don Juan de Dios stood heroically at his post. Let bullets

come and go, Don Juan kept his cooks about him, and to those who had

doubted his valor his coffee was answer enough.

"W'y, my gracious, Mr. Hooker!" he railed, as Bud refreshed himself

between trips, "ain't you going to take any up to those women? Don't

drink so much coffee now, but give it to the men who fight!"

"Ump-um," grunted Bud with a grin; "they got a skinful of _mescal_

already! What they need is another car-load of ammunition to help 'em

shoot their first rebel."

"I thought you said they wouldn't fight!" twitted Don Juan. "This is

the battle of Fortuna that I was telling you about last week."

"Sure!" answered Bud. "And over there is the dead!"

He pointed to a riot of _mescal_ bottles that marked the scene of the

night's potations, and Don Juan gave him up as hopeless.

But, jest as he would, Bud saw that the situation was serious, for the

foolhardy Sonorans had already emptied their cartridge-belts, and their

guns were no better than clubs. Unless the rebels had been equally

reckless with their ammunition they had the town at their mercy, and

the first thing that they would demand would be the refugees in the big

house.

The possession of the town; the arms of the defenders; food, clothing,

and horses to ride--none of these would satisfy them. They would demand

the rich Spanish landowners to be held for ransom, the women first of

all. And of all those women huddled up in the _casa grande_ not one

would bring a bigger ransom than Gracia Aragon.

Bud pondered the outcome as the emissaries wrangled on the hillside,

and then he went back to the corral to make sure that his horse was

safe. Copper Bottom, too, might be held for ransom. But, knowing the

rebels as he did, Hooker foresaw a different fate, and rather than see

him become the mount of some rebel chieftain he had determined, if the

town surrendered, to make a dash.

Riding by night and hiding in the hills by day, he could get to the

border in two days. All he needed was a little jerked beef for the trip

and he would be ready for anything.

So he hurried down to the hotel again and was just making a sack of

food fast to his saddle when he heard a noise behind him and turned to

face Aragon. For two days the once-haughty Don Cipriano had slunk about

like a sick cat, but now he was headed for Gracia's big roan, and the

look in his eyes betrayed his purpose.

"Where you going?" demanded Hooker in English, and at the gruff

challenge the Spaniard stopped in his tracks. The old, hunted look came

back into his eyes, he seemed to shrink before the stern gaze of the

Texan, and, as the memory of his past misdeeds came over him, he turned

as if to flee.

But there was a smile, an amused and tolerant smirk, about the

American's mouth, and even for that look of understanding the harried

_haciendado_ seemed to thank him. He was broken now, thrown down from

his pedestal of arrogance and conceit, and as Hooker did not offer to

shoot him at sight he turned back to him like a lost dog that seeks but

a kind word.

"Ah, _señor_," he whined, "your pardon! What?" as he sighted the sack

of meat. "You are going, too? Ah, my friend"--his eyes lighted up

suddenly at the thought--"let me ride with you! I will pay you--yes,

anything--but if Bernardo Bravo takes me he will hang me! He has sworn

it!"

"Well, you got it coming to you!" answered Hooker heartlessly.

"But I will pay you well!" pleaded Aragon. "I will pay you--" He paused

as if to consider what would tempt him and then suddenly he raised his

head.

"What is it you wish above everything?" he questioned eagerly. "Your

title to the mine--no? _Bien!_ Take me to the line--protect me from my

enemies--and the papers are yours!"

"Have you got them with you?" inquired Hooker with businesslike

directness.

"No, but I can get them!" cried Aragon, forgetful of everything but his

desire to escape. "I can get them while you saddle my horse!"

"Where?" demanded Hooker craftily.

"From the _agente mineral_!" answered Aragon. "I have a great deal of

influence with him, and--"

"_Bastante!_" exploded Bud in a voice which made Aragon jump. "Enough!

If you can get them, _I_ can! And we shall see, Señor Aragon, whether

this pistol of mine will not give me some influence, too!"

"Then you will take them?" faltered Aragon as Hooker started to go.

"You will take them and leave me for Bernardo Bravo to--"

"Listen, _señor_!" exclaimed Hooker, halting and advancing a

threatening forefinger. "A man who can hire four men to do his dirty

work needs no protection from me. You understand that--no? Then listen

again. I am going to get those papers. If I hear a word from you I will

send you to join your four men."

He touched his gun as he spoke and strode out into the open, where he

beckoned the mineral agent from the crowd. A word in his ear and they

went down the hill together, while Don Cipriano watched from above.

Then, as they turned into the office, Aragon spat out a curse and went

to seek Manuel del Rey.