could not sleep. Tomorrow he was to be shot! Bridge did not wish to die.
That very morning General Villa in person had examined him. The general
had been exceedingly wroth--the sting of the theft of his funds still
irritated him; but he had given Bridge no inkling as to his fate. It had
remained for a fellow-prisoner to do that. This man, a deserter, was to
be shot, so he said, with Bridge, a fact which gave him an additional
twenty-four hours of life, since, he asserted, General Villa wished
to be elsewhere than in Cuivaca when an American was executed. Thus he
could disclaim responsibility for the act.
The general was to depart in the morning. Shortly after, Bridge and the
deserter would be led out and blindfolded before a stone wall--if there
was such a thing, or a brick wall, or an adobe wall. It made little
difference to the deserter, or to Bridge either. The wall was but a
trivial factor. It might go far to add romance to whomever should read
of the affair later; but in so far as Bridge and the deserter were
concerned it meant nothing. A billboard, thought Bridge, bearing
the slogan: “Eventually! Why not now?” would have been equally as
efficacious and far more appropriate.
The room in which he was confined was stuffy with the odor of
accumulated filth. Two small barred windows alone gave means of
ventilation. He and the deserter were the only prisoners. The latter
slept as soundly as though the morrow held nothing more momentous in his
destiny than any of the days that had preceded it. Bridge was moved to
kick the fellow into consciousness of his impending fate. Instead he
walked to the south window to fill his lungs with the free air beyond
his prison pen, and gaze sorrowfully at the star-lit sky which he should
never again behold.
In a low tone Bridge crooned a snatch of the poem that he and Billy
liked best:
And you, my sweet Penelope, out there somewhere you wait for me,
With buds of roses in your hair and kisses on your mouth.
Bridge's mental vision was concentrated upon the veranda of a
white-walled ranchhouse to the east. He shook his head angrily.
“It's just as well,” he thought. “She's not for me.”
Something moved upon the ground beyond the window. Bridge became
suddenly intent upon the thing. He saw it rise and resolve itself into
the figure of a man, and then, in a low whisper, came a familiar voice:
“There ain't no roses in my hair, but there's a barker in my shirt,
an' another at me side. Here's one of 'em. They got kisses beat a city
block. How's the door o' this thing fastened?” The speaker was quite
close to the window now, his face but a few inches from Bridge's.
“Billy!” ejaculated the condemned man.
“Surest thing you know; but about the door?”
“Just a heavy bar on the outside,” replied Bridge.
“Easy,” commented Billy, relieved. “Get ready to beat it when I open
the door. I got a pony south o' town that'll have to carry double for a
little way tonight.”
“God bless you, Billy!” whispered Bridge, fervently.
“Lay low a few minutes,” said Billy, and moved away toward the rear of
the guardhouse.
A few minutes later there broke upon the night air the dismal hoot of
an owl. At intervals of a few seconds it was repeated twice. The sentry
before the guardhouse shifted his position and looked about, then he
settled back, transferring his weight to the other foot, and resumed his
bovine meditations.
The man at the rear of the guardhouse moved silently along the side
of the structure until he stood within a few feet of the unsuspecting
sentinel, hidden from him by the corner of the building. A heavy
revolver dangled from his right hand. He held it loosely by the barrel,
and waited.
For five minutes the silence of the night was unbroken, then from the
east came a single shot, followed immediately by a scattering fusillade
and a chorus of hoarse cries.
Billy Byrne smiled. The sentry resumed indications of quickness. From
the barracks beyond the guardhouse came sharp commands and the sounds
of men running. From the opposite end of the town the noise of battle
welled up to ominous proportions.
Billy heard the soldiers stream from their quarters and a moment later
saw them trot up the street at the double. Everyone was moving toward
the opposite end of the town except the lone sentinel before the
guardhouse. The moment seemed propitious for his attempt.
Billy peered around the corner of the guardhouse. Conditions were
just as he had pictured they would be. The sentry stood gazing in the
direction of the firing, his back toward the guardhouse door and Billy.
With a bound the American cleared the space between himself and the
unsuspecting and unfortunate soldier. The butt of the heavy revolver
fell, almost noiselessly, upon the back of the sentry's head, and the
man sank to the ground without even a moan.
Turning to the door Billy knocked the bar from its place, the door swung
in and Bridge slipped through to liberty.
“Quick!” said Billy. “Follow me,” and turned at a rapid run toward the
south edge of the town. He made no effort now to conceal his movements.
Speed was the only essential, and the two covered the ground swiftly and
openly without any attempt to take advantage of cover.
They reached Billy's horse unnoticed, and a moment later were trotting
toward the west to circle the town and regain the trail to the north and
safety.
To the east they heard the diminishing rifle fire of the combatants as
Pesita's men fell steadily back before the defenders, and drew them away
from Cuivaca in accordance with Billy's plan.
“Like takin' candy from a baby,” said Billy, when the flickering lights
of Cuivaca shone to the south of them, and the road ahead lay clear to
the rendezvous of the brigands.
“Yes,” agreed Bridge; “but what I'd like to know, Billy, is how you
found out I was there.”
“Penelope,” said Byrne, laughing.
“Penelope!” queried Bridge. “I'm not at all sure that I follow you,
Billy.”
“Well, seein' as you're sittin' on behind you can't be leadin' me,”
returned Billy; “but cuttin' the kid it was a skirt tipped it off to me
where you was--the beautiful senorita of El Orobo Rancho, I think Jose
called her. Now are you hep?”
Bridge gave an exclamation of astonishment. “God bless her!” he said.
“She did that for me?”
“She sure did,” Billy assured him, “an' I'll bet an iron case she's
a-waitin' for you there with buds o' roses in her hair an' kisses on her
mouth, you old son-of-a-gun, you.” Billy laughed happily. He was happy
anyway at having rescued Bridge, and the knowledge that his friend was
in love and that the girl reciprocated his affection--all of which Billy
assumed as the only explanation of her interest in Bridge--only added to
his joy. “She ain't a greaser is she?” he asked presently.
“I should say not,” replied Bridge. “She's a perfect queen from New
York City; but, Billy, she's not for me. What she did was prompted by a
generous heart. She couldn't care for me, Billy. Her father is a wealthy
man--he could have the pick of the land--of many lands--if she cared to
marry. You don't think for a minute she'd want a hobo, do you?”
“You can't most always tell,” replied Billy, a trifle sadly. “I knew
such a queen once who would have chosen a mucker, if he'd a-let her.
You're stuck on her, ol' man?”
“I'm afraid I am, Billy,” Bridge admitted; “but what's the use? Let's
forget it. Oh, say, is this the horse I let you take the night you
robbed the bank?”
“Yes,” said Billy; “same little pony, an' a mighty well-behaved one,
too. Why?”
“It's hers,” said Bridge.
“An' she wants it back?”
“She didn't say so; but I'd like to get it to her some way,” said
Bridge.
“You ride it back when you go,” suggested Billy.
“But I can't go back,” said Bridge; “it was Grayson, the foreman, who
made it so hot for me I had to leave. He tried to arrest me and send me
to Villa.”
“What for?” asked Billy.
“He didn't like me, and wanted to get rid of me.” Bridge wouldn't say
that his relations with Billy had brought him into trouble.
“Oh, well, I'll take it back myself then, and at the same time I'll tell
Penelope what a regular fellow you are, and punch in the foreman's face
for good luck.”
“No, you mustn't go there. They know you now. It was some of El Orobo's
men you shot up day before yesterday when you took their steers from
them. They recognized the pony, and one of them had seen you in Cuivaca
the night of the robbery. They would be sure to get you, Billy.”
Shortly the two came in touch with the retreating Pesitistas who were
riding slowly toward their mountain camp. Their pursuers had long since
given up the chase, fearing that they might be being lured into the
midst of a greatly superior force, and had returned to Cuivaca.
It was nearly morning when Bridge and Billy threw themselves down upon
the latter's blankets, fagged.
“Well, well,” murmured Billy Byrne; “li'l ol' Bridgie's found his
Penelope,” and fell asleep.
CHAPTER XIII. BARBARA AGAIN
CAPTAIN BILLY BYRNE rode out of the hills the following afternoon upon a
pinto pony that showed the whites of its eyes in a wicked rim about the
iris and kept its ears perpetually flattened backward.
At the end of a lariat trailed the Brazos pony, for Billy, laughing
aside Bridge's pleas, was on his way to El Orobo Rancho to return the
stolen horse to its fair owner.
At the moment of departure Pesita had asked Billy to ride by way of
Jose's to instruct the old Indian that he should bear word to one
Esteban that Pesita required his presence.
It is a long ride from the retreat of the Pesitistas to Jose's squalid
hut, especially if one be leading an extra horse, and so it was that
darkness had fallen long before Billy arrived in sight of Jose's.
Dismounting some distance from the hut, Billy approached cautiously,
since the world is filled with dangers for those who are beyond the law,
and one may not be too careful.
Billy could see a light showing through a small window, and toward
this he made his way. A short distance from Jose's is another, larger
structure from which the former inhabitants had fled the wrath of
Pesita. It was dark and apparently tenantless; but as a matter of fact a
pair of eyes chanced at the very moment of Billy's coming to be looking
out through the open doorway.
The owner turned and spoke to someone behind him.
“Jose has another visitor,” he said. “Possibly this one is less harmless
than the other. He comes with great caution. Let us investigate.”
Three other men rose from their blankets upon the floor and joined the
speaker. They were all armed, and clothed in the nondescript uniforms of
Villistas. Billy's back was toward them as they sneaked from the hut in
which they were intending to spend the night and crept quietly toward
him.
Billy was busily engaged in peering through the little window into
the interior of the old Indian's hovel. He saw an American in earnest
conversation with Jose. Who could the man be? Billy did not recognize
him; but presently Jose answered the question.
“It shall be done as you wish, Senor Grayson,” he said.
“Ah!” thought Billy; “the foreman of El Orobo. I wonder what business he
has with this old scoundrel--and at night.”
What other thoughts Billy might have had upon the subject were rudely
interrupted by four energetic gentlemen in his rear, who leaped upon him
simultaneously and dragged him to the ground. Billy made no outcry; but
he fought none the less strenuously for his freedom, and he fought after
the manner of Grand Avenue, which is not a pretty, however effective,
way it may be.
But four against one when all the advantages lie with the four are heavy
odds, and when Grayson and Jose ran out to investigate, and the ranch
foreman added his weight to that of the others Billy was finally
subdued. That each of his antagonists would carry mementos of the battle
for many days was slight compensation for the loss of liberty. However,
it was some.
After disarming their captive and tying his hands at his back they
jerked him to his feet and examined him.
“Who are you?” asked Grayson. “What you doin' sneakin' 'round spyin' on
me, eh?”
“If you wanna know who I am, bo,” replied Billy, “go ask de Harlem
Hurricane, an' as fer spyin' on youse, I wasn't; but from de looks I
guess youse need spyin, yuh tinhorn.”
A pony whinnied a short distance from the hut.
“That must be his horse,” said one of the Villistas, and walked away to
investigate, returning shortly after with the pinto pony and Brazos.
The moment Grayson saw the latter he gave an exclamation of
understanding.
“I know him now,” he said. “You've made a good catch, Sergeant. This
is the fellow who robbed the bank at Cuivaca. I recognize him from the
descriptions I've had of him, and the fact that he's got the Brazos pony
makes it a cinch. Villa oughter promote you for this.”
“Yep,” interjected Billy, “he orter make youse an admiral at least;
but youse ain't got me home yet, an' it'll take more'n four Dagos an' a
tin-horn to do it.”
“They'll get you there all right, my friend,” Grayson assured him. “Now
come along.”
They bundled Billy into his own saddle, and shortly after the little
party was winding southward along the river in the direction of El Orobo
Rancho, with the intention of putting up there for the balance of the
night where their prisoner could be properly secured and guarded. As
they rode away from the dilapidated hut of the Indian the old man stood
silhouetted against the rectangle of dim light which marked the open
doorway, and shook his fist at the back of the departing ranch foreman.
“El cochino!” he cackled, and turned back into his hut.
At El Orobo Rancho Barbara walked to and fro outside the ranchhouse.
Within her father sat reading beneath the rays of an oil lamp. From the
quarters of the men came the strains of guitar music, and an occasional
loud laugh indicated the climax of some of Eddie Shorter's famous Kansas
farmer stories.
Barbara was upon the point of returning indoors when her attention was
attracted by the approach of a half-dozen horsemen. They reined into the
ranchyard and dismounted before the office building. Wondering a little
who came so late, Barbara entered the house, mentioning casually to her
father that which she had just seen.
The ranch owner, now always fearful of attack, was upon the point
of investigating when Grayson rode up to the veranda and dismounted.
Barbara and her father were at the door as he ascended the steps.
“Good news!” exclaimed the foreman. “I've got the bank robber, and
Brazos, too. Caught the sneakin' coyote up to--up the river a bit.” He
had almost said “Jose's;” but caught himself in time. “Someone's been
cuttin' the wire at the north side of the north pasture, an' I was
ridin' up to see ef I could catch 'em at it,” he explained.
“He is an American?” asked the boss.
“Looks like it; but he's got the heart of a greaser,” replied Grayson.
“Some of Villa's men are with me, and they're a-goin' to take him to
Cuivaca tomorrow.”
Neither Barbara nor her father seemed to enthuse much. To them an
American was an American here in Mexico, where every hand was against
their race. That at home they might have looked with disgust upon this
same man did not alter their attitude here, that no American should take
sides against his own people. Barbara said as much to Grayson.
“Why this fellow's one of Pesita's officers,” exclaimed Grayson. “He
don't deserve no sympathy from us nor from no other Americans. Pesita
has sworn to kill every American that falls into his hands, and this
fellow's with him to help him do it. He's a bad un.”
“I can't help what he may do,” insisted Barbara. “He's an American, and
I for one would never be a party to his death at the hands of a Mexican,
and it will mean death to him to be taken to Cuivaca.”
“Well, miss,” said Grayson, “you won't hev to be responsible--I'll take
all the responsibility there is and welcome. I just thought you'd like
to know we had him.” He was addressing his employer. The latter nodded,
and Grayson turned and left the room. Outside he cast a sneering laugh
back over his shoulder and swung into his saddle.
In front of the men's quarters he drew rein again and shouted Eddie's
name. Shorter came to the door.
“Get your six-shooter an' a rifle, an' come on over to the office. I
want to see you a minute.”
Eddie did as he was bid, and when he entered the little room he saw four
Mexicans lolling about smoking cigarettes while Grayson stood before
a chair in which sat a man with his arms tied behind his back. Grayson
turned to Eddie.
“This party here is the slick un that robbed the bank, and got away
on thet there Brazos pony thet miserable bookkeepin' dude giv him. The
sergeant here an' his men are a-goin' to take him to Cuivaca in the
mornin'. You stand guard over him 'til midnight, then they'll relieve
you. They gotta get a little sleep first, though, an' I gotta get
some supper. Don't stand fer no funny business now, Eddie,” Grayson
admonished him, and was on the point of leaving the office when a
thought occurred to him. “Say, Shorter,” he said, “they ain't no way
of gettin' out of the little bedroom in back there except through this
room. The windows are too small fer a big man to get through. I'll tell
you what, we'll lock him up in there an' then you won't hev to worry
none an' neither will we. You can jest spread out them Navajos there and
go to sleep right plump ag'in the door, an' there won't nobody hev to
relieve you all night.”
“Sure,” said Eddie, “leave it to me--I'll watch the slicker.”
Satisfied that their prisoner was safe for the night the Villistas and
Grayson departed, after seeing him safely locked in the back room.
At the mention by the foreman of his guard's names--Eddie and
Shorter--Billy had studied the face of the young American cowpuncher,
for the two names had aroused within his memory a tantalizing suggestion
that they should be very familiar. Yet he could connect them in no way
with anyone he had known in the past and he was quite sure that he never
before had set eyes upon this man.
Sitting in the dark with nothing to occupy him Billy let his mind dwell
upon the identity of his jailer, until, as may have happened to you,
nothing in the whole world seemed equally as important as the solution
of the mystery. Even his impending fate faded into nothingness by
comparison with the momentous question as to where he had heard the name
Eddie Shorter before.
As he sat puzzling his brain over the inconsequential matter something
stirred upon the floor close to his feet, and presently he jerked back a
booted foot that a rat had commenced to gnaw upon.
“Helluva place to stick a guy,” mused Billy, “in wit a bunch o'
man-eatin' rats. Hey!” and he turned his face toward the door. “You,
Eddie! Come here!”
Eddie approached the door and listened.
“Wot do you want?” he asked. “None o' your funny business, you know. I'm
from Shawnee, Kansas, I am, an' they don't come no slicker from nowhere
on earth. You can't fool me.”
Shawnee, Kansas! Eddie Shorter! The whole puzzle was cleared in Billy's
mind in an instant.
“So you're Eddie Shorter of Shawnee, Kansas, are you?” called Billy.
“Well I know your maw, Eddie, an' ef I had such a maw as you got I
wouldn't be down here wastin' my time workin' alongside a lot of Dagos;
but that ain't what I started out to say, which was that I want a
light in here. The damned rats are tryin' to chaw off me kicks an' when
they're done wit them they'll climb up after me an' old man Villa'll be
sore as a pup.”
“You know my maw?” asked Eddie, and there was a wistful note in his
voice. “Aw shucks! you don't know her--that's jest some o' your funny,
slicker business. You wanna git me in there an' then you'll try an'
git aroun' me some sort o' way to let you escape; but I'm too slick for
that.”
“On the level Eddie, I know your maw,” persisted Billy. “I ben in your
maw's house jest a few weeks ago. 'Member the horsehair sofa between the
windows? 'Member the Bible on the little marble-topped table? Eh? An'
Tige? Well, Tige's croaked; but your maw an' your paw ain't an' they
want you back, Eddie. I don't care ef you believe me, son, or not; but
your maw was mighty good to me, an' you promise me you'll write her an'
then go back home as fast as you can. It ain't everybody's got a swell
maw like that, an' them as has ought to be good to 'em.”
Beyond the closed door Eddie's jaw was commencing to tremble. Memory
was flooding his heart and his eyes with sweet recollections of an ample
breast where he used to pillow his head, of a big capable hand that was
wont to smooth his brow and stroke back his red hair. Eddie gulped.
“You ain't joshin' me?” he asked. Billy Byrne caught the tremor in the
voice.
“I ain't kiddin' you son,” he said. “Wotinell do you take me fer--one o'
these greasy Dagos? You an' I're Americans--I wouldn't string a home guy
down here in this here Godforsaken neck o' the woods.”
Billy heard the lock turn, and a moment later the door was cautiously
opened revealing Eddie safely ensconced behind two six-shooters.
“That's right, Eddie,” said Billy, with a laugh. “Don't you take no
chances, no matter how much sob stuff I hand you, fer, I'll give it to
you straight, ef I get the chanct I'll make my get-away; but I can't do
it wit my flippers trussed, an' you wit a brace of gats sittin' on me.
Let's have a light, Eddie. That won't do nobody any harm, an' it may
discourage the rats.”
Eddie backed across the office to a table where stood a small lamp.
Keeping an eye through the door on his prisoner he lighted the lamp and
carried it into the back room, setting it upon a commode which stood in
one corner.
“You really seen maw?” he asked. “Is she well?”
“Looked well when I seen her,” said Billy; “but she wants her boy back
a whole lot. I guess she'd look better still ef he walked in on her some
day.”
“I'll do it,” cried Eddie. “The minute they get money for the pay I'll
hike. Tell me your name. I'll ask her ef she remembers you when I get
home. Gee! but I wish I was walkin' in the front door now.”
“She never knew my name,” said Billy; “but you tell her you seen the bo
that mussed up the two yeggmen who rolled her an' were tryin' to croak
her wit a butcher knife. I guess she ain't fergot. Me an' my pal were
beatin' it--he was on the square but the dicks was after me an' she let
us have money to make our get-away. She's all right, kid.”
There came a knock at the outer office door. Eddie sprang back into
the front room, closing and locking the door after him, just as Barbara
entered.
“Eddie,” she asked, “may I see the prisoner? I want to talk to him.”
“You want to talk with a bank robber?” exclaimed Eddie. “Why you ain't
crazy are you, Miss Barbara?”
“No, I'm not crazy; but I want to speak with him alone for just a
moment, Eddie--please.”
Eddie hesitated. He knew that Grayson would be angry if he let the
boss's daughter into that back room alone with an outlaw and a robber,
and the boss himself would probably be inclined to have Eddie drawn and
quartered; but it was hard to refuse Miss Barbara anything.
“Where is he?” she asked.
Eddie jerked a thumb in the direction of the door. The key still was in
the lock.
“Go to the window and look at the moon, Eddie,” suggested the girl.
“It's perfectly gorgeous tonight. Please, Eddie,” as he still hesitated.
Eddie shook his head and moved slowly toward the window.
“There can't nobody refuse you nothin', miss,” he said; “'specially when
you got your heart set on it.”
“That's a dear, Eddie,” purred the girl, and moved swiftly across the
room to the locked door.
As she turned the key in the lock she felt a little shiver of nervous
excitement run through her. “What sort of man would he be--this hardened
outlaw and robber--this renegade American who had cast his lot with the
avowed enemies of his own people?” she wondered.
Only her desire to learn of Bridge's fate urged her to attempt so
distasteful an interview; but she dared not ask another to put
the question for her, since should her complicity in Bridge's
escape--provided of course that he had escaped--become known to Villa
the fate of the Americans at El Orobo would be definitely sealed.
She turned the knob and pushed the door open, slowly. A man was sitting
in a chair in the center of the room. His back was toward her. He was a
big man. His broad shoulders loomed immense above the back of the rude
chair. A shock of black hair, rumpled and tousled, covered a well-shaped
head.
At the sound of the door creaking upon its hinges he turned his face in
her direction, and as his eyes met hers all four went wide in surprise
and incredulity.
“Billy!” she cried.
“Barbara!--you?” and Billy rose to his feet, his bound hands struggling
to be free.
The girl closed the door behind her and crossed to him.
“You robbed the bank, Billy?” she asked. “It was you, after the promises
you made me to live straight always--for my sake?” Her voice trembled
with emotion. The man could see that she suffered, and yet he felt his
own anguish, too.
“But you are married,” he said. “I saw it in the papers. What do you
care, now, Barbara? I'm nothing to you.”
“I'm not married, Billy,” she cried. “I couldn't marry Mr. Mallory. I
tried to make myself believe that I could; but at last I knew that I did
not love him and never could, and I wouldn't marry a man I didn't love.
“I never dreamed that it was you here, Billy,” she went on. “I came to
ask you about Mr. Bridge. I wanted to know if he escaped, or if--if--oh,
this awful country! They think no more of human life here than a butcher
thinks of the life of the animal he dresses.”
A sudden light illumined Billy's mind. Why had it not occurred to him
before? This was Bridge's Penelope! The woman he loved was loved by his
best friend. And she had sent a messenger to him, to Billy, to save her
lover. She had come here to the office tonight to question a stranger--a
man she thought an outlaw and a robber--because she could not rest
without word from the man she loved. Billy stiffened. He was hurt to the
bottom of his heart; but he did not blame Bridge--it was fate. Nor did
he blame Barbara because she loved Bridge. Bridge was more her kind
anyway. He was a college guy. Billy was only a mucker.
“Bridge got away all right,” he said. “And say, he didn't have nothin'
to do with pullin' off that safe crackin'. I done it myself. He didn't
know I was in town an' I didn't know he was there. He's the squarest guy
in the world, Bridge is. He follered me that night an' took a shot at
me, thinkin' I was the robber all right but not knowin' I was me. He
got my horse, an' when he found it was me, he made me take your pony an'
make my get-away, fer he knew Villa's men would croak me sure if they
caught me. You can't blame him fer that, can you? Him an' I were good
pals--he couldn't do nothin' else. It was him that made me bring your
pony back to you. It's in the corral now, I reckon. I was a-bringin' it
back when they got me. Now you better go. This ain't no place fer you,
an' I ain't had no sleep fer so long I'm most dead.” His tones were
cool. He appeared bored by her company; though as a matter of fact
his heart was breaking with love for her--love that he believed
unrequited--and he yearned to tear loose his bonds and crush her in his
arms.
It was Barbara's turn now to be hurt. She drew herself up.
“I am sorry that I have disturbed your rest,” she said, and walked away,
her head in the air; but all the way back to the ranchhouse she kept
repeating over and over to herself: “Tomorrow they will shoot him!
Tomorrow they will shoot him! Tomorrow they will shoot him!”
CHAPTER XIV. 'TWIXT LOVE AND DUTY
FOR an hour Barbara Harding paced the veranda of the ranchhouse, pride
and love battling for the ascendency within her breast. She could not
let him die, that she knew; but how might she save him?
The strains of music and the laughter from the bunkhouse had ceased. The
ranch slept. Over the brow of the low bluff upon the opposite side of
the river a little party of silent horsemen filed downward to the ford.
At the bluff's foot a barbed-wire fence marked the eastern boundary of
the ranch's enclosed fields. The foremost horseman dismounted and cut
the strands of wire, carrying them to one side from the path of the feet
of the horses which now passed through the opening he had made.
Down into the river they rode following the ford even in the darkness
with an assurance which indicated long familiarity. Then through a
fringe of willows out across a meadow toward the ranch buildings
the riders made their way. The manner of their approach, their utter
silence, the hour, all contributed toward the sinister.
Upon the veranda of the ranchhouse Barbara Harding came to a sudden
halt. Her entire manner indicated final decision, and determination. A
moment she stood in thought and then ran quickly down the steps and in
the direction of the office. Here she found Eddie dozing at his post.
She did not disturb him. A glance through the window satisfied her that
he was alone with the prisoner. From the office building Barbara passed
on to the corral. A few horses stood within the enclosure, their heads
drooping dejectedly. As she entered they raised their muzzles and
sniffed suspiciously, ears a-cock, and as the girl approached closer
to them they moved warily away, snorting, and passed around her to the
opposite side of the corral. As they moved by her she scrutinized them
and her heart dropped, for Brazos was not among them. He must have been
turned out into the pasture.
She passed over to the bars that closed the opening from the corral into
the pasture and wormed her way between two of them. A hackamore with a
piece of halter rope attached to it hung across the upper bar. Taking it
down she moved off across the pasture in the direction the saddle horses
most often took when liberated from the corral.
If they had not crossed the river she felt that she might find and catch
Brazos, for lumps of sugar and bits of bread had inspired in his equine
soul a wondrous attachment for his temporary mistress.
Down the beaten trail the animals had made to the river the girl
hurried, her eyes penetrating the darkness ahead and to either hand for
the looming bulks that would be the horses she sought, and among which
she might hope to discover the gentle little Brazos.
The nearer she came to the river the lower dropped her spirits, for as
yet no sign of the animals was to be seen. To have attempted to place a
hackamore upon any of the wild creatures in the corral would have been
the height of foolishness--only a well-sped riata in the hands of a
strong man could have captured one of these.
Closer and closer to the fringe of willows along the river she came,
until, at their very edge, there broke upon her already taut nerves the
hideous and uncanny scream of a wildcat. The girl stopped short in
her tracks. She felt the chill of fear creep through her skin, and a
twitching at the roots of her hair evidenced to her the extremity of her
terror. Should she turn back? The horses might be between her and the
river, but judgment told her that they had crossed. Should she brave the
nervous fright of a passage through that dark, forbidding labyrinth of
gloom when she knew that she should not find the horses within reach
beyond?
She turned to retrace her steps. She must find another way!
But was there another way? And “Tomorrow they will shoot him!” She
shuddered, bit her lower lip in an effort to command her courage, and
then, wheeling, plunged into the thicket.
Again the cat screamed--close by--but the girl never hesitated in her
advance, and a few moments later she broke through the willows a dozen
paces from the river bank. Her eyes strained through the night; but no
horses were to be seen.
The trail, cut by the hoofs of many animals, ran deep and straight down
into the swirling water. Upon the opposite side Brazos must be feeding
or resting, just beyond reach.
Barbara dug her nails into her palms in the bitterness of her
disappointment. She followed down to the very edge of the water. It
was black and forbidding. Even in the daytime she would not have been
confident of following the ford--by night it would be madness to attempt
it.
She choked down a sob. Her shoulders drooped. Her head bent forward. She
was the picture of disappointment and despair.
“What can I do?” she moaned. “Tomorrow they will shoot him!”
The thought seemed to electrify her.
“They shall not shoot him!” she cried aloud. “They shall not shoot him
while I live to prevent it!”
Again her head was up and her shoulders squared. Tying the hackamore
about her waist, she took a single deep breath of reassurance and
stepped out into the river. For a dozen paces she found no difficulty in
following the ford. It was broad and straight; but toward the center
of the river, as she felt her way along a step at a time, she came to a
place where directly before her the ledge upon which she crossed shelved
off into deep water. She turned upward, trying to locate the direction
of the new turn; but here too there was no footing. Down river she
felt solid rock beneath her feet. Ah! this was the way, and boldly she
stepped out, the water already above her knees. Two, three steps she
took, and with each one her confidence and hope arose, and then the
fourth step--and there was no footing. She felt herself lunging into the
stream, and tried to draw back and regain the ledge; but the force of
the current was too much for her, and, so suddenly it seemed that she
had thrown herself in, she was in the channel swimming for her life.
The trend of the current there was back in the direction of the bank she
had but just quitted, yet so strong was her determination to succeed for
Billy Byrne's sake that she turned her face toward the opposite shore
and fought to reach the seemingly impossible goal which love had set for
her. Again and again she was swept under by the force of the current.
Again and again she rose and battled, not for her own life; but for
the life of the man she once had loathed and whom she later had come to
love. Inch by inch she won toward the shore of her desire, and inch by
inch of her progress she felt her strength failing. Could she win? Ah!
if she were but a man, and with the thought came another: Thank God that
I am a woman with a woman's love which gives strength to drive me into
the clutches of death for his sake!
Her heart thundered in tumultuous protest against the strain of her
panting lungs. Her limbs felt cold and numb; but she could not give
up even though she was now convinced that she had thrown her life away
uselessly. They would find her body; but no one would ever guess what
had driven her to her death. Not even he would know that it was for
his sake. And then she felt the tugging of the channel current suddenly
lessen, an eddy carried her gently inshore, her feet touched the sand
and gravel of the bottom.
Gasping for breath, staggering, stumbling, she reeled on a few paces
and then slipped down clutching at the river's bank. Here the water was
shallow, and here she lay until her strength returned. Then she urged
herself up and onward, climbed to the top of the bank with success at
last within reach.
To find the horses now required but a few minutes' search. They stood
huddled in a black mass close to the barbed-wire fence at the extremity
of the pasture. As she approached them they commenced to separate
slowly, edging away while they faced her in curiosity. Softly she
called: “Brazos! Come, Brazos!” until a unit of the moving mass detached
itself and came toward her, nickering.
“Good Brazos!” she cooed. “That's a good pony,” and walked forward to
meet him.
The animal let her reach up and stroke his forehead, while he muzzled
about her for the expected tidbit. Gently she worked the hackamore
over his nose and above his ears, and when it was safely in place she
breathed a deep sigh of relief and throwing her arms about his neck
pressed her cheek to his.
“You dear old Brazos,” she whispered.
The horse stood quietly while the girl wriggled herself to his back,
and then at a word and a touch from her heels moved off at a walk in the
direction of the ford. The crossing this time was one of infinite ease,
for Barbara let the rope lie loose and Brazos take his own way.
Through the willows upon the opposite bank he shouldered his path,
across the meadow still at a walk, lest they arouse attention, and
through a gate which led directly from the meadow into the ranchyard.
Here she tied him to the outside of the corral, while she went in search
of saddle and bridle. Whose she took she did not know, nor care, but
that the saddle was enormously heavy she was perfectly aware long before
she had dragged it halfway to where Brazos stood.
Three times she essayed to lift it to his back before she succeeded in
accomplishing the Herculean task, and had it been any other horse upon
the ranch than Brazos the thing could never have been done; but the
kindly little pony stood in statuesque resignation while the heavy
Mexican tree was banged and thumped against his legs and ribs, until a
lucky swing carried it to his withers.
Saddled and bridled Barbara led him to the rear of the building and
thus, by a roundabout way, to the back of the office building. Here she
could see a light in the room in which Billy was confined, and after
dropping the bridle reins to the ground she made her way to the front of
the structure.
Creeping stealthily to the porch she peered in at the window. Eddie was
stretched out in cramped though seeming luxury in an office chair.
His feet were cocked up on the desk before him. In his lap lay his
six-shooter ready for any emergency. Another reposed in its holster at
his belt.
Barbara tiptoed to the door. Holding her breath she turned the knob
gently. The door swung open without a sound, and an instant later she
stood within the room. Again her eyes were fixed upon Eddie Shorter.
She saw his nerveless fingers relax their hold upon the grip of his
revolver. She saw the weapon slip farther down into his lap. He did not
move, other than to the deep and regular breathing of profound slumber.
Barbara crossed the room to his side.
Behind the ranchhouse three figures crept forward in the shadows. Behind
them a matter of a hundred yards stood a little clump of horses and with
them were the figures of more men. These waited in silence. The other
three crept toward the house. It was such a ranchhouse as you might find
by the scores or hundreds throughout Texas. Grayson, evidently, or some
other Texan, had designed it. There was nothing Mexican about it, nor
anything beautiful. It stood two storied, verandaed and hideous, a blot
upon the soil of picturesque Mexico.
To the roof of the veranda clambered the three prowlers, and across it
to an open window. The window belonged to the bedroom of Miss Barbara
Harding. Here they paused and listened, then two of them entered the
room. They were gone for but a few minutes. When they emerged they
showed evidences, by their gestures to the third man who had awaited
outside, of disgust and disappointment.
Cautiously they descended as they had come and made their way back to
those other men who had remained with the horses. Here there ensued a
low-toned conference, and while it progressed Barbara Harding reached
forth a steady hand which belied the terror in her soul and plucked the
revolver from Eddie Shorter's lap. Eddie slept on.
Again on tiptoe the girl recrossed the office to the locked door leading
into the back room. The key was in the lock. Gingerly she turned it,
keeping a furtive eye upon the sleeping guard, and the muzzle of his own
revolver leveled menacingly upon him. Eddie Shorter stirred in his sleep
and raised a hand to his face. The heart of Barbara Harding ceased to
beat while she stood waiting for the man to open his eyes and discover
her; but he did nothing of the kind. Instead his hand dropped limply at
his side and he resumed his regular breathing.
The key turned in the lock beneath the gentle pressure of her fingers,
the bolt slipped quietly back and she pushed the door ajar. Within,
Billy Byrne turned inquiring eyes in the direction of the opening door,
and as he saw who it was who entered surprise showed upon his face; but
he spoke no word for the girl held a silencing finger to her lips.
Quickly she came to his side and motioned him to rise while she tugged
at the knots which held the bonds in place about his arms. Once she
stopped long enough to recross the room and close the door which she had
left open when she entered.
It required fully five minutes--the longest five minutes of Barbara
Harding's life, she thought--before the knots gave to her efforts; but
at last the rope fell to the floor and Billy Byrne was free.
He started to speak, to thank her, and, perhaps, to scold her for the
rash thing she had undertaken for him; but she silenced him again, and
with a whispered, “Come!” turned toward the door.
As she opened it a crack to reconnoiter she kept the revolver pointed
straight ahead of her into the adjoining room. Eddie, however, still
slept on in peaceful ignorance of the trick which was being played upon
him.
Now the two started forward for the door which opened from the office
upon the porch, and as they did so Barbara turned again toward Billy
to caution him to silence for his spurs had tinkled as he moved. For a
moment their eyes were not upon Eddie Shorter and Fate had it that at
that very moment Eddie awoke and opened his own eyes.
The sight that met them was so astonishing that for a second the Kansan
could not move. He saw Barbara Harding, a revolver in her hand,
aiding the outlaw to escape, and in the instant that surprise kept him
motionless Eddie saw, too, another picture--the picture of a motherly
woman in a little farmhouse back in Kansas, and Eddie realized that this
man, this outlaw, had been the means of arousing within him a desire and
a determination to return again to those loving arms. Too, the man had
saved his mother from injury, and possible death.
Eddie shut his eyes quickly and thought hard and fast. Miss Barbara
had always been kind to him. In his boyish heart he had loved her,
hopelessly of course, in a boyish way. She wanted the outlaw to escape.
Eddie realized that he would do anything that Miss Barbara wanted, even
if he had to risk his life at it.
The girl and the man were at the door. She pushed him through ahead of
her while she kept the revolver leveled upon Eddie, then she passed out
after him and closed the door, while Eddie Shorter kept his eyes tightly
closed and prayed to his God that Billy Byrne might get safely away.
Outside and in the rear of the office building Barbara pressed the
revolver upon Billy.
“You will need it,” she said. “There is Brazos--take him. God bless and
guard you, Billy!” and she was gone.
Billy swallowed bard. He wanted to run after her and take her in his
arms; but he recalled Bridge, and with a sigh turned toward the patient
Brazos. Languidly he gathered up the reins and mounted, and then
unconcernedly as though he were an honored guest departing by daylight
he rode out of the ranchyard and turned Brazos' head north up the river
road.
And as Billy disappeared in the darkness toward the north Barbara
Harding walked slowly toward the ranchhouse, while from a little group
of men and horses a hundred yards away three men detached themselves
and crept toward her, for they had seen her in the moonlight as she left
Billy outside the office and strolled slowly in the direction of the
house.
They hid in the shadow at the side of the house until the girl had
turned the corner and was approaching the veranda, then they ran quickly
forward and as she mounted the steps she was seized from behind and
dragged backward. A hand was clapped over her mouth and a whispered
threat warned her to silence.
Half dragging and half carrying her the three men bore her back to where
their confederates awaited them. A huge fellow mounted his pony and
Barbara was lifted to the horn of the saddle before him. Then the others
mounted and as silently as they had come they rode away, following the
same path.
Barbara Harding had not cried out nor attempted to, for she had seen
very shortly after her capture that she was in the hands of Indians and
she judged from what she had heard of the little band of Pimans who held
forth in the mountains to the east that they would as gladly knife her
as not.
Jose was a Piman, and she immediately connected Jose with the
perpetration, or at least the planning of her abduction. Thus she felt
assured that no harm would come to her, since Jose had been famous in
his time for the number and size of the ransoms he had collected.
Her father would pay what was demanded, she would be returned and, aside
from a few days of discomfort and hardship, she would be none the worse
off for her experience. Reasoning thus it was not difficult to maintain
her composure and presence of mind.
As Barbara was borne toward the east, Billy Byrne rode steadily
northward. It was his intention to stop at Jose's hut and deliver the
message which Pesita had given him for the old Indian. Then he would
disappear into the mountains to the west, join Pesita and urge a new
raid upon some favored friend of General Francisco Villa, for Billy had
no love for Villa.
He should have been glad to pay his respects to El Orobo Rancho and
its foreman; but the fact that Anthony Harding owned it and that he and
Barbara were there was sufficient effectually to banish all thoughts of
revenge along that line.
“Maybe I can get his goat later,” he thought, “when he's away from the
ranch. I don't like that stiff, anyhow. He orter been a harness bull.”
It was four o'clock in the morning when Billy dismounted in front of
Jose's hut. He pounded on the door until the man came and opened it.
“Eh!” exclaimed Jose as he saw who his early morning visitor was, “you
got away from them. Fine!” and the old man chuckled. “I send word to
Pesita two, four hours ago that Villistas capture Capitan Byrne and take
him to Cuivaca.”
“Thanks,” said Billy. “Pesita wants you to send Esteban to him. I didn't
have no chance to tell you last night while them pikers was stickin'
aroun', so I stops now on my way back to the hills.”
“I will send Esteban tonight if I can get him; but I do not know.
Esteban is working for the pig, Grayson.”
“Wot's he doin' fer Grayson?” asked Billy. “And what was the Grayson
guy doin' up here with you, Jose? Ain't you gettin' pretty thick with
Pesita's enemies?”
“Jose good friends everybody,” and the old man grinned. “Grayson have
a job he want good men for. Jose furnish men. Grayson pay well. Job
got nothin' do Pesita, Villa, Carranza, revolution--just private job.
Grayson want senorita. He pay to get her. That all.”
“Oh,” said Billy, and yawned. He was not interested in Mr. Grayson's
amours. “Why didn't the poor boob go get her himself?” he inquired
disinterestedly. “He must be a yap to hire a bunch o' guys to go cop off
a siwash girl fer him.”
“It is not a siwash girl, Senor Capitan,” said Jose. “It is one
beautiful senorita--the daughter of the owner of El Orobo Rancho.”
“What?” cried Billy Byrne. “What's that you say?”
“Yes, Senor Capitan, what of it?” inquired Jose. “Grayson he pay me
furnish the men. Esteban he go with his warriors. I get Esteban. They go
tonight take away the senorita; but not for Grayson,” and the old fellow
laughed. “I can no help can I? Grayson pay me money get men. I get them.
I no help if they keep girl,” and he shrugged.
“They're comin' for her tonight?” cried Billy.
“Si, senor,” replied Jose. “Doubtless they already take her.”
“Hell!” muttered Billy Byrne, as he swung Brazos about so quickly that
the little pony pivoted upon his hind legs and dashed away toward the
south over the same trail he had just traversed.
CHAPTER XV. AN INDIAN'S TREACHERY
THE Brazos pony had traveled far that day but for only a trifle over ten
miles had he carried a rider upon his back. He was, consequently, far
from fagged as he leaped forward to the lifted reins and tore along the
dusty river trail back in the direction of Orobo.
Never before had Brazos covered ten miles in so short a time, for it was
not yet five o'clock when, reeling with fatigue, he stopped, staggered
and fell in front of the office building at El Orobo.
Eddie Shorter had sat in the chair as Barbara and Billy had last seen
him waiting until Byrne should have an ample start before arousing
Grayson and reporting the prisoner's escape. Eddie had determined that
he would give Billy an hour. He grinned as he anticipated the rage of
Grayson and the Villistas when they learned that their bird had flown,
and as he mused and waited he fell asleep.
It was broad daylight when Eddie awoke, and as he looked up at the
little clock ticking against the wall, and saw the time he gave an
exclamation of surprise and leaped to his feet. Just as he opened the
outer door of the office he saw a horseman leap from a winded pony
in front of the building. He saw the animal collapse and sink to the
ground, and then he recognized the pony as Brazos, and another glance at
the man brought recognition of him, too.
“You?” cried Eddie. “What are you doin' back here? I gotta take you
now,” and he started to draw his revolver; but Billy Byrne had him
covered before ever his hand reached the grip of his gun.
“Put 'em up!” admonished Billy, “and listen to me. This ain't no time
fer gunplay or no such foolishness. I ain't back here to be took--get
that out o' your nut. I'm tipped off that a bunch o' siwashes was down
here last night to swipe Miss Harding. Come! We gotta go see if she's
here or not, an' don't try any funny business on me, Eddie. I ain't
a-goin' to be taken again, an' whoever tries it gets his, see?”
Eddie was down off the porch in an instant, and making for the
ranchhouse.
“I'm with you,” he said. “Who told you? And who done it?”
“Never mind who told me; but a siwash named Esteban was to pull the
thing off for Grayson. Grayson wanted Miss Harding an' he was goin' to
have her stolen for him.”
“The hound!” muttered Eddie.
The two men dashed up onto the veranda of the ranchhouse and pounded at
the door until a Chinaman opened it and stuck out his head, inquiringly.
“Is Miss Harding here?” demanded Billy.
“Mlissy Hardie Kleep,” snapped the servant. “Wally wanee here flo
blekfas?”, and would have shut the door in their faces had not Billy
intruded a heavy boot. The next instant he placed a large palm over the
celestial's face and pushed the man back into the house. Once inside he
called Mr. Harding's name aloud.
“What is it?” asked the gentleman a moment later as he appeared in a
bedroom doorway off the living-room clad in his pajamas. “What's the
matter? Why, gad man, is that you? Is this really Billy Byrne?”
“Sure,” replied Byrne shortly; “but we can't waste any time chinnin'. I
heard that Miss Barbara was goin' to be swiped last night--I heard that
she had been. Now hurry and see if she is here.”
Anthony Harding turned and leaped up the narrow stairway to the second
floor four steps at a time. He hadn't gone upstairs in that fashion in
forty years. Without even pausing to rap he burst into his daughter's
bedroom. It was empty. The bed was unruffled. It had not been slept in.
With a moan the man turned back and ran hastily to the other rooms upon
the second floor--Barbara was nowhere to be found. Then he hastened
downstairs to the two men awaiting him.
As he entered the room from one end Grayson entered it from the other
through the doorway leading out upon the veranda. Billy Byrne had heard
footsteps upon the boards without and he was ready, so that as Grayson
entered he found himself looking straight at the business end of a
sixshooter. The foreman halted, and stood looking in surprise first at
Billy Byrne, and then at Eddie Shorter and Mr. Harding.
“What does this mean?” he demanded, addressing Eddie. “What you doin'
here with your prisoner? Who told you to let him out, eh?”
“Can the chatter,” growled Billy Byrne. “Shorter didn't let me out. I
escaped hours ago, and I've just come back from Jose's to ask you where
Miss Harding is, you low-lived cur, you. Where is she?”
“What has Mr. Grayson to do with it?” asked Mr. Harding. “How should he
know anything about it? It's all a mystery to me--you here, of all men
in the world, and Grayson talking about you as the prisoner. I can't
make it out. Quick, though, Byrne, tell me all you know about Barbara.”
Billy kept Grayson covered as he replied to the request of Harding.
“This guy hires a bunch of Pimans to steal Miss Barbara,” he said. “I
got it straight from the fellow he paid the money to for gettin' him the
right men to pull off the job. He wants her it seems,” and Billy shot
a look at the ranch foreman that would have killed if looks could. “She
can't have been gone long. I seen her after midnight, just before I made
my getaway, so they can't have taken her very far. This thing here can't
help us none neither, for he don't know where she is any more'n we do.
He thinks he does; but he don't. The siwashes framed it on him, an'
they've doubled-crossed him. I got that straight too; but, Gawd! I don't
know where they've taken her or what they're goin' to do with her.”
As he spoke he turned his eyes for the first time away from Grayson and
looked full in Anthony Harding's face. The latter saw beneath the strong
character lines of the other's countenance the agony of fear and doubt
that lay heavy upon his heart.
In the brief instant that Billy's watchful gaze left the figure of the
ranch foreman the latter saw the opportunity he craved. He was standing
directly in the doorway--a single step would carry him out of range of
Byrne's gun, placing a wall between it and him, and Grayson was not slow
in taking that step.
When Billy turned his eyes back the Texan had disappeared, and by the
time the former reached the doorway Grayson was halfway to the office
building on the veranda of which stood the four soldiers of Villa
grumbling and muttering over the absence of their prisoner of the
previous evening.
Billy Byrne stepped out into the open. The ranch foreman called aloud to
the four Mexicans that their prisoner was at the ranchhouse and as they
looked in that direction they saw him, revolver in hand, coming slowly
toward them. There was a smile upon his lips which they could not see
because of the distance, and which, not knowing Billy Byrne, they would
not have interpreted correctly; but the revolver they did understand,
and at sight of it one of them threw his carbine to his shoulder. His
finger, however, never closed upon the trigger, for there came the sound
of a shot from beyond Billy Byrne and the Mexican staggered forward,
pitching over the edge of the porch to the ground.
Billy turned his head in the direction from which the shot had come and
saw Eddie Shorter running toward him, a smoking six-shooter in his right
hand.
“Go back,” commanded Byrne; “this is my funeral.”
“Not on your life,” replied Eddie Shorter. “Those greasers don't take no
white man off'n El Orobo, while I'm here. Get busy! They're comin'.”
And sure enough they were coming, and as they came their carbines popped
and the bullets whizzed about the heads of the two Americans. Grayson,
too, had taken a hand upon the side of the Villistas. From the bunkhouse
other men were running rapidly in the direction of the fight, attracted
by the first shots.
Billy and Eddie stood their ground, a few paces apart. Two more of
Villa's men went down. Grayson ran for cover. Then Billy Byrne dropped
the last of the Mexicans just as the men from the bunkhouse came panting
upon the scene. There were both Americans and Mexicans among them. All
were armed and weapons were ready in their hands.
They paused a short distance from the two men. Eddie's presence upon the
side of the stranger saved Billy from instant death, for Eddie was well
liked by both his Mexican and American fellow-workers.
“What's the fuss?” asked an American.
Eddie told them, and when they learned that the boss's daughter had been
spirited away and that the ranch foreman was at the bottom of it the
anger of the Americans rose to a dangerous pitch.
“Where is he?” someone asked. They were gathered in a little cluster now
about Billy Byrne and Shorter.
“I saw him duck behind the office building,” said Eddie.
“Come on,” said another. “We'll get him.”
“Someone get a rope.” The men spoke in low, ordinary tones--they
appeared unexcited. Determination was the most apparent characteristic
of the group. One of them ran back toward the bunkhouse for his rope.
The others walked slowly in the direction of the rear of the office
building. Grayson was not there. The search proceeded. The Americans
were in advance. The Mexicans kept in a group by themselves a little in
rear of the others--it was not their trouble. If the gringos wanted to
lynch another gringo, well and good--that was the gringos' business.
They would keep out of it, and they did.
Down past the bunkhouse and the cookhouse to the stables the searchers
made their way. Grayson could not be found. In the stables one of the
men made a discovery--the foreman's saddle had vanished. Out in the
corrals they went. One of the men laughed--the bars were down and the
saddle horses gone. Eddie Shorter presently pointed out across the
pasture and the river to the skyline of the low bluffs beyond. The
others looked. A horseman was just visible urging his mount upward to
the crest, the two stood in silhouette against the morning sky pink with
the new sun.
“That's him,” said Eddie.
“Let him go,” said Billy Byrne. “He won't never come back and he ain't
worth chasin'. Not while we got Miss Barbara to look after. My horse
is down there with yours. I'm goin' down to get him. Will you come,
Shorter? I may need help--I ain't much with a rope yet.”
He started off without waiting for a reply, and all the Americans
followed. Together they circled the horses and drove them back to the
corral. When Billy had saddled and mounted he saw that the others had
done likewise.
“We're goin' with you,” said one of the men. “Miss Barbara b'longs to
us.”
Billy nodded and moved off in the direction of the ranchhouse. Here he
dismounted and with Eddie Shorter and Mr. Harding commenced circling
the house in search of some manner of clue to the direction taken by
the abductors. It was not long before they came upon the spot where the
Indians' horses had stood the night before. From there the trail led
plainly down toward the river. In a moment ten Americans were following
it, after Mr. Harding had supplied Billy Byrne with a carbine, another
six-shooter, and ammunition.
Through the river and the cut in the barbed-wire fence, then up the face
of the bluff and out across the low mesa beyond the trail led. For a
mile it was distinct, and then disappeared as though the riders had
separated.
“Well,” said Billy, as the others drew around him for consultation,
“they'd be goin' to the hills there. They was Pimans--Esteban's tribe.
They got her up there in the hills somewheres. Let's split up an'
search the hills for her. Whoever comes on 'em first'll have to do
some shootin' and the rest of us can close in an' help. We can go in
pairs--then if one's killed the other can ride out an' lead the way back
to where it happened.”
The men seemed satisfied with the plan and broke up into parties of two.
Eddie Shorter paired off with Billy Byrne.
“Spread out,” said the latter to his companions. “Eddie an' I'll ride
straight ahead--the rest of you can fan out a few miles on either side
of us. S'long an' good luck,” and he started off toward the hills, Eddie
Shorter at his side.
Back at the ranch the Mexican vaqueros lounged about, grumbling. With no
foreman there was nothing to do except talk about their troubles. They
had not been paid since the looting of the bank at Cuivaca, for Mr.
Harding had been unable to get any silver from elsewhere until a few
days since. He now had assurances that it was on the way to him; but
whether or not it would reach El Orobo was a question.
“Why should we stay here when we are not paid?” asked one of them.
“Yes, why?” chorused several others.
“There is nothing to do here,” said another. “We will go to Cuivaca. I,
for one, am tired of working for the gringos.”
This met with the unqualified approval of all, and a few moments
later the men had saddled their ponies and were galloping away in the
direction of sun-baked Cuivaca. They sang now, and were happy, for they
were as little boys playing hooky from school--not bad men; but rather
irresponsible children.
Once in Cuivaca they swooped down upon the drinking-place, where, with
what little money a few of them had left they proceeded to get drunk.
Later in the day an old, dried-up Indian entered. He was hot and dusty
from a long ride.
“Hey, Jose!” cried one of the vaqueros from El Orobo Rancho; “you old
rascal, what are you doing here?”
Jose looked around upon them. He knew them all--they represented the
Mexican contingent of the riders of El Orobo. Jose wondered what they
were all doing here in Cuivaca at one time. Even upon a pay day it never
had been the rule of El Orobo to allow more than four men at a time to
come to town.
“Oh, Jose come to buy coffee and tobacco,” he replied. He looked about
searchingly. “Where are the others?” he asked, “--the gringos?”
“They have ridden after Esteban,” explained one of the vaqueros. “He has
run off with Senorita Harding.”
Jose raised his eyebrows as though this was all news.
“And Senor Grayson has gone with them?” he asked. “He was very fond of
the senorita.”
“Senor Grayson has run away,” went on the other speaker. “The other
gringos wished to hang him, for it is said he has bribed Esteban to do
this thing.”
Again Jose raised his eyebrows. “Impossible!” he ejaculated. “And who
then guards the ranch?” he asked presently.
“Senor Harding, two Mexican house servants, and a Chinaman,” and the
vaquero laughed.
“I must be going,” Jose announced after a moment. “It is a long ride for
an old man from my poor home to Cuivaca, and back again.”
The vaqueros were paying no further attention to him, and the Indian
passed out and sought his pony; but when he had mounted and ridden from
town he took a strange direction for one whose path lies to the east,
since he turned his pony's head toward the northwest.
Jose had ridden far that day, since Billy had left his humble hut. He
had gone to the west to the little rancho of one of Pesita's adherents
who had dispatched a boy to carry word to the bandit that his Captain
Byrne had escaped the Villistas, and then Jose had ridden into Cuivaca
by a circuitous route which brought him up from the east side of the
town.
Now he was riding once again for Pesita; but this time he would bear
the information himself. He found the chief in camp and after begging
tobacco and a cigarette paper the Indian finally reached the purpose of
his visit.
“Jose has just come from Cuivaca,” he said, “and there he drank with
all the Mexican vaqueros of El Orobo Rancho--ALL, my general, you
understand. It seems that Esteban has carried off the beautiful senorita
of El Orobo Rancho, and the vaqueros tell Jose that ALL the American
vaqueros have ridden in search of her--ALL, my general, you understand.
In such times of danger it is odd that the gringos should leave El Orobo
thus unguarded. Only the rich Senor Harding, two house servants, and a
Chinaman remain.”
A man lay stretched upon his blankets in a tent next to that occupied
by Pesita. At the sound of the speaker's voice, low though it was, he
raised his head and listened. He heard every word, and a scowl settled
upon his brow. Barbara stolen! Mr Harding practically alone upon the
ranch! And Pesita in possession of this information!
Bridge rose to his feet. He buckled his cartridge belt about his waist
and picked up his carbine, then he crawled under the rear wall of his
tent and walked slowly off in the direction of the picket line where the
horses were tethered.
“Ah, Senor Bridge,” said a pleasant voice in his ear; “where to?”
Bridge turned quickly to look into the smiling, evil face of Rozales.
“Oh,” he replied, “I'm going out to see if I can't find some shooting.
It's awfully dull sitting around here doing nothing.”
“Si, senor,” agreed Rozales; “I, too, find it so. Let us go together--I
know where the shooting is best.”
“I don't doubt it,” thought Bridge; “probably in the back;” but aloud
he said: “Certainly, that will be fine,” for he guessed that Rozales had
been set to watch his movements and prevent his escape, and, perchance,
to be the sole witness of some unhappy event which should carry Senor
Bridge to the arms of his fathers.
Rozales called a soldier to saddle and bridle their horses and shortly
after the two were riding abreast down the trail out of the hills. Where
it was necessary that they ride in single file Bridge was careful to
see that Rozales rode ahead, and the Mexican graciously permitted the
American to fall behind.
If he was inspired by any other motive than simple espionage he was
evidently content to bide his time until chance gave him the opening he
desired, and it was equally evident that he felt as safe in front of the
American as behind him.
At a point where a ravine down which they had ridden debauched upon a
mesa Rozales suggested that they ride to the north, which was not at all
the direction in which Bridge intended going. The American demurred.
“But there is no shooting down in the valley,” urged Rozales.
“I think there will be,” was Bridge's enigmatical reply, and then, with
a sudden exclamation of surprise he pointed over Rozales' shoulder.
“What's that?” he cried in a voice tense with excitement.
The Mexican turned his head quickly in the direction Bridge's index
finger indicated.
“I see nothing,” said Rozales, after a moment.
“You do now, though,” replied Bridge, and as the Mexican's eyes returned
in the direction of his companion he was forced to admit that he did see
something--the dismal, hollow eye of a six-shooter looking him straight
in the face.
“Senor Bridge!” exclaimed Rozales. “What are you doing? What do you
mean?”
“I mean,” said Bridge, “that if you are at all solicitous of your health
you'll climb down off that pony, not forgetting to keep your hands above
your head when you reach the ground. Now climb!”
Rozales dismounted.
“Turn your back toward me,” commanded the American, and when the other
had obeyed him, Bridge dismounted and removed the man's weapons from his
belt. “Now you may go, Rozales,” he said, “and should you ever have an
American in your power again remember that I spared your life when I
might easily have taken it--when it would have been infinitely safer for
me to have done it.”
The Mexican made no reply, but the black scowl that clouded his face
boded ill for the next gringo who should be so unfortunate as to fall
into his hands. Slowly he wheeled about and started back up the trail in
the direction of the Pesita camp.
“I'll be halfway to El Orobo,” thought Bridge, “before he gets a chance
to tell Pesita what happened to him,” and then he remounted and rode on
down into the valley, leading Rozales' horse behind him.
It would never do, he knew, to turn the animal loose too soon, since he
would doubtless make his way back to camp, and in doing so would have
to pass Rozales who would catch him. Time was what Bridge wanted--to be
well on his way to Orobo before Pesita should learn of his escape.
Bridge knew nothing of what had happened to Billy, for Pesita had seen
to it that the information was kept from the American. The latter had,
nevertheless, been worrying not a little at the absence of his friend
for he knew that he had taken his liberty and his life in his hands in
riding down to El Orobo among avowed enemies.
Far to his rear Rozales plodded sullenly up the steep trail through the
mountains, revolving in his mind various exquisite tortures he should be
delighted to inflict upon the next gringo who came into his power.
CHAPTER XVI. EDDIE MAKES GOOD
BILLY BYRNE and Eddie Shorter rode steadily in the direction of the
hills. Upon either side and at intervals of a mile or more stretched the
others of their party, occasionally visible; but for the most part not.
Once in the hills the two could no longer see their friends or be seen
by them.
Both Byrne and Eddie felt that chance had placed them upon the right
trail for a well-marked and long-used path wound upward through a canyon
along which they rode. It was an excellent location for an ambush, and
both men breathed more freely when they had passed out of it into more
open country upon a narrow tableland between the first foothills and the
main range of mountains.
Here again was the trail well marked, and when Eddie, looking ahead, saw
that it appeared to lead in the direction of a vivid green spot close to
the base of the gray brown hills he gave an exclamation of assurance.
“We're on the right trail all right, old man,” he said. “They's water
there,” and he pointed ahead at the green splotch upon the gray. “That's
where they'd be havin' their village. I ain't never been up here so I
ain't familiar with the country. You see we don't run no cattle this
side the river--the Pimans won't let us. They don't care to have no
white men pokin' round in their country; but I'll bet a hat we find a
camp there.”
Onward they rode toward the little spot of green. Sometimes it was
in sight and again as they approached higher ground, or wound through
gullies and ravines it was lost to their sight; but always they kept it
as their goal. The trail they were upon led to it--of that there
could be no longer the slightest doubt. And as they rode with their
destination in view black, beady eyes looked down upon them from the
very green oasis toward which they urged their ponies--tiring now from
the climb.
A lithe, brown body lay stretched comfortably upon a bed of grasses at
the edge of a little rise of ground beneath which the riders must pass
before they came to the cluster of huts which squatted in a tiny natural
park at the foot of the main peak. Far above the watcher a spring of
clear, pure water bubbled out of the mountain-side, and running downward
formed little pools among the rocks which held it. And with this water
the Pimans irrigated their small fields before it sank from sight again
into the earth just below their village. Beside the brown body lay a
long rifle. The man's eyes watched, unblinking, the two specks far below
him whom he knew and had known for an hour were gringos.
Another brown body wormed itself forward to his side and peered over the
edge of the declivity down upon the white men. He spoke a few words in
a whisper to him who watched with the rifle, and then crawled back again
and disappeared. And all the while, onward and upward came Billy Byrne
and Eddie Shorter, each knowing in his heart that if not already, then
at any moment a watcher would discover them and a little later a bullet
would fly that would find one of them, and they took the chance for the
sake of the American girl who lay hidden somewhere in these hills, for
in no other way could they locate her hiding place more quickly. Any one
of the other eight Americans who rode in pairs into the hills at other
points to the left and right of Billy Byrne and his companion would
have and was even then cheerfully taking the same chances that Eddie and
Billy took, only the latter were now assured that to one of them would
fall the sacrifice, for as they had come closer Eddie had seen a thin
wreath of smoke rising from among the trees of the oasis. Now, indeed,
were they sure that they had chanced upon the trail to the Piman
village.
“We gotta keep our eyes peeled,” said Eddie, as they wound into a ravine
which from its location evidently led directly up to the village. “We
ain't far from 'em now, an' if they get us they'll get us about here.”
As though to punctuate his speech with the final period a rifle cracked
above them. Eddie jumped spasmodically and clutched his breast.
“I'm hit,” he said, quite unemotionally.
Billy Byrne's revolver had answered the shot from above them, the bullet
striking where Billy had seen a puff of smoke following the rifle shot.
Then Billy turned toward Eddie.
“Hit bad?” he asked.
“Yep, I guess so,” said Eddie. “What'll we do? Hide up here, or ride
back after the others?”
Another shot rang out above them, although Billy had been watching for
a target at which to shoot again--a target which he had been positive he
would get when the man rose to fire again. And Billy did see the fellow
at last--a few paces from where he had first fired; but not until the
other had dropped Eddie's horse beneath him. Byrne fired again, and this
time he had the satisfaction of seeing a brown body rise, struggle a
moment, and then roll over once upon the grass before it came to rest.
“I reckon we'll stay here,” said Billy, looking ruefully at Eddie's
horse.
Eddie rose and as he did so he staggered and grew very white. Billy
dismounted and ran forward, putting an arm about him. Another shot came
from above and Billy Byrne's pony grunted and collapsed.
“Hell!” exclaimed Byrne. “We gotta get out of this,” and lifting his
wounded comrade in his arms he ran for the shelter of the bluff from the
summit of which the snipers had fired upon them. Close in, hugging the
face of the perpendicular wall of tumbled rock and earth, they were
out of range of the Indians; but Billy did not stop when he had reached
temporary safety. Farther up toward the direction in which lay the
village, and halfway up the side of the bluff Billy saw what he took to
be excellent shelter. Here the face of the bluff was less steep and
upon it lay a number of large bowlders, while others protruded from the
ground about them.
Toward these Billy made his way. The wounded man across his shoulder
was suffering indescribable agonies; but he bit his lip and stifled the
cries that each step his comrade took seemed to wrench from him, lest he
attract the enemy to their position.
Above them all was silence, yet Billy knew that alert, red foemen were
creeping to the edge of the bluff in search of their prey. If he could
but reach the shelter of the bowlders before the Pimans discovered them!
The minutes that were consumed in covering the hundred yards seemed as
many hours to Billy Byrne; but at last he dragged the fainting cowboy
between two large bowlders close under the edge of the bluff and found
himself in a little, natural fortress, well adapted to defense.
From above they were protected from the fire of the Indians upon the
bluff by the height of the bowlder at the foot of which they lay, while
another just in front hid them from possible marksmen across the canyon.
Smaller rocks scattered about gave promise of shelter from flank fire,
and as soon as he had deposited Eddie in the comparative safety of their
retreat Byrne commenced forming a low breastwork upon the side facing
the village--the direction from which they might naturally expect
attack. This done he turned his attention to the opening upon the
opposite side and soon had a similar defense constructed there, then he
turned his attention to Eddie, though keeping a watchful eye upon both
approaches to their stronghold.
The Kansan lay upon his side, moaning. Blood stained his lips and
nostrils, and when Billy Byrne opened his shirt and found a gaping wound
in his right breast he knew how serious was his companion's injury. As
he felt Billy working over him the boy opened his eyes.
“Do you think I'm done for?” he asked in a tortured whisper.
“Nothin' doin',” lied Billy cheerfully. “Just a scratch. You'll be all
right in a day or two.”
Eddie shook his head wearily. “I wish I could believe you,” he said. “I
ben figgerin' on goin' back to see maw. I ain't thought o' nothin' else
since you told me 'bout how she missed me. I ken see her right now just
like I was there. I'll bet she's scrubbin' the kitchen floor. Maw was
always a-scrubbin' somethin'. Gee! but it's tough to cash in like this
just when I was figgerin' on goin' home.”
Billy couldn't think of anything to say. He turned to look up and down
the canyon in search of the enemy.
“Home!” whispered Eddie. “Home!”
“Aw, shucks!” said Billy kindly. “You'll get home all right, kid. The
boys must a-heard the shootin' an' they'll be along in no time now. Then
we'll clean up this bunch o' coons an' have you back to El Orobo an'
nursed into shape in no time.”
Eddie tried to smile as he looked up into the other's face. He reached a
hand out and laid it on Billy's arm.
“You're all right, old man,” he whispered. “I know you're lyin' an' so
do you; but it makes me feel better anyway to have you say them things.”
Billy felt as one who has been caught stealing from a blind man. The
only adequate reply of which he could think was, “Aw, shucks!”
“Say,” said Eddie after a moment's silence, “if you get out o' here an'
ever go back to the States promise me you'll look up maw and paw an'
tell 'em I was comin' home--to stay. Tell 'em I died decent, too, will
you--died like paw was always a-tellin' me my granddad died, fightin'
Injuns 'round Fort Dodge somewheres.”
“Sure,” said Billy; “I'll tell 'em. Gee! Look who's comin' here,” and
as he spoke he flattened himself to the ground just as a bullet pinged
against the rock above his head and the report of a rifle sounded
from up the canyon. “That guy most got me. I'll have to be 'tendin' to
business better'n this.”
He drew himself slowly up upon his elbows, his carbine ready in his
hand, and peered through a small aperture between two of the rocks which
composed his breastwork. Then he stuck the muzzle of the weapon through,
took aim and pulled the trigger.
“Didje get him?” asked Eddie.
“Yep,” said Billy, and fired again. “Got that one too. Say, they're
tough-lookin' guys; but I guess they won't come so fast next time. Those
two were right in the open, workin' up to us on their bellies. They must
a-thought we was sleepin'.”
For an hour Billy neither saw nor heard any sign of the enemy, though
several times he raised his hat above the breastwork upon the muzzle of
his carbine to draw their fire.
It was midafternoon when the sound of distant rifle fire came faintly to
the ears of the two men from somewhere far below them.
“The boys must be comin',” whispered Eddie Shorter hopefully.
For half an hour the firing continued and then silence again fell upon
the mountains. Eddie began to wander mentally. He talked much of Kansas
and his old home, and many times he begged for water.
“Buck up, kid,” said Billy; “the boys'll be along in a minute now an'
then we'll get you all the water you want.”
But the boys did not come. Billy was standing up now, stretching his
legs, and searching up and down the canyon for Indians. He was wondering
if he could chance making a break for the valley where they stood
some slight chance of meeting with their companions, and even as he
considered the matter seriously there came a staccato report and Billy
Byrne fell forward in a heap.
“God!” cried Eddie. “They got him now, they got him.”
Byrne stirred and struggled to rise.
“Like'll they got me,” he said, and staggered to his knees.
Over the breastwork he saw a half-dozen Indians running rapidly toward
the shelter--he saw them in a haze of red that was caused not by blood
but by anger. With an oath Billy Byrne leaped to his feet. From his
knees up his whole body was exposed to the enemy; but Billy cared not.
He was in a berserker rage. Whipping his carbine to his shoulder he let
drive at the advancing Indians who were now beyond hope of cover. They
must come on or be shot down where they were, so they came on, yelling
like devils and stopping momentarily to fire upon the rash white man who
stood so perfect a target before them.
But their haste spoiled their marksmanship. The bullets zinged and
zipped against the rocky little fortress, they nicked Billy's shirt and
trousers and hat, and all the while he stood there pumping lead into
his assailants--not hysterically; but with the cool deliberation of a
butcher slaughtering beeves.
One by one the Pimans dropped until but a single Indian rushed
frantically upon the white man, and then the last of the assailants
lunged forward across the breastwork with a bullet from Billy's carbine
through his forehead.
Eddie Shorter had raised himself painfully upon an elbow that he might
witness the battle, and when it was over he sank back, the blood welling
from between his set teeth.
Billy turned to look at him when the last of the Pimans was disposed
of, and seeing his condition kneeled beside him and took his head in the
hollow of an arm.
“You orter lie still,” he cautioned the Kansan. “Tain't good for you to
move around much.”
“It was worth it,” whispered Eddie. “Say, but that was some scrap. You
got your nerve standin' up there against the bunch of 'em; but if you
hadn't they'd have rushed us and some of 'em would a-got in.”
“Funny the boys don't come,” said Billy.
“Yes,” replied Eddie, with a sigh; “it's milkin' time now, an' I
figgered on goin' to Shawnee this evenin'. Them's nice cookies, maw.
I--”
Billy Byrne was bending low to catch his feeble words, and when the
voice trailed out into nothingness he lowered the tousled red head to
the hard earth and turned away.
Could it be that the thing which glistened on the eyelid of the toughest
guy on the West Side was a tear?
The afternoon waned and night came, but it brought to Billy Byrne
neither renewed attack nor succor. The bullet which had dropped him
momentarily had but creased his forehead. Aside from the fact that he
was blood covered from the wound it had inconvenienced him in no way,
and now that darkness had fallen he commenced to plan upon leaving the
shelter.
First he transferred Eddie's ammunition to his own person, and such
valuables and trinkets as he thought “maw” might be glad to have, then
he removed the breechblock from Eddie's carbine and stuck it in his
pocket that the weapon might be valueless to the Indians when they found
it.
“Sorry I can't bury you old man,” was Billy's parting comment, as he
climbed over the breastwork and melted into the night.
Billy Byrne moved cautiously through the darkness, and he moved not in
the direction of escape and safety but directly up the canyon in the way
that the village of the Pimans lay.
Soon he heard the sound of voices and shortly after saw the light of
cook fires playing upon bronzed faces and upon the fronts of low huts.
Some women were moaning and wailing. Billy guessed that they mourned for
those whom his bullets had found earlier in the day. In the darkness of
the night, far up among the rough, forbidding mountains it was all very
weird and uncanny.
Billy crept closer to the village. Shelter was abundant. He saw no sign
of sentry and wondered why they should be so lax in the face of almost
certain attack. Then it occurred to him that possibly the firing he and
Eddie had heard earlier in the day far down among the foothills might
have meant the extermination of the Americans from El Orobo.
“Well, I'll be next then,” mused Billy, and wormed closer to the huts.
His eyes were on the alert every instant, as were his ears; but no sign
of that which he sought rewarded his keenest observation.
Until midnight he lay in concealment and all that time the mourners
continued their dismal wailing. Then, one by one, they entered their
huts, and silence reigned within the village.
Billy crept closer. He eyed each hut with longing, wondering gaze. Which
could it be? How could he determine? One seemed little more promising
than the others. He had noted those to which Indians had retired. There
were three into which he had seen none go. These, then, should be the
first to undergo his scrutiny.
The night was dark. The moon had not yet risen. Only a few dying fires
cast a wavering and uncertain light upon the scene. Through the shadows
Billy Byrne crept closer and closer. At last he lay close beside one of
the huts which was to be the first to claim his attention.
For several moments he lay listening intently for any sound which might
come from within; but there was none. He crawled to the doorway and
peered within. Utter darkness shrouded and hid the interior.
Billy rose and walked boldly inside. If he could see no one within, then
no one could see him once he was inside the door. Therefore, so reasoned
Billy Byrne, he would have as good a chance as the occupants of the hut,
should they prove to be enemies.
He crossed the floor carefully, stopping often to listen. At last he
heard a rustling sound just ahead of him. His fingers tightened upon the
revolver he carried in his right hand, by the barrel, clublike. Billy
had no intention of making any more noise than necessary.
Again he heard a sound from the same direction. It was not at all unlike
the frightened gasp of a woman. Billy emitted a low growl, in fair
imitation of a prowling dog that has been disturbed.
Again the gasp, and a low: “Go away!” in liquid feminine tones--and in
English!
Billy uttered a low: “S-s-sh!” and tiptoed closer. Extending his hands
they presently came in contact with a human body which shrank from him
with another smothered cry.
“Barbara!” whispered Billy, bending closer.
A hand reached out through the darkness, found him, and closed upon his
sleeve.
“Who are you?” asked a low voice.
“Billy,” he replied. “Are you alone in here?”
“No, an old woman guards me,” replied the girl, and at the same time
they both heard a movement close at hand, and something scurried
past them to be silhouetted for an instant against the path of lesser
darkness which marked the location of the doorway.
“There she goes!” cried Barbara. “She heard you and she has gone for
help.”
“Then come!” said Billy, seizing the girl's arm and dragging her to her
feet; but they had scarce crossed half the distance to the doorway when
the cries of the old woman without warned them that the camp was being
aroused.
Billy thrust a revolver into Barbara's hand. “We gotta make a fight of
it, little girl,” he said. “But you'd better die than be here alone.”
As they emerged from the hut they saw warriors running from every
doorway. The old woman stood screaming in Piman at the top of her lungs.
Billy, keeping Barbara in front of him that he might shield her body
with his own, turned directly out of the village. He did not fire at
first hoping that they might elude detection and thus not draw the fire
of the Indians upon them; but he was doomed to disappointment, and they
had taken scarcely a dozen steps when a rifle spoke above the noise of
human voices and a bullet whizzed past them.
Then Billy replied, and Barbara, too, from just behind his shoulder.
Together they backed away toward the shadow of the trees beyond the
village and as they went they poured shot after shot into the village.
The Indians, but just awakened and still half stupid from sleep, did not
know but that they were attacked by a vastly superior force, and this
fear held them in check for several minutes--long enough for Billy and
Barbara to reach the summit of the bluff from which Billy and Eddie had
first been fired upon.
Here they were hidden from the view of the Indians, and Billy broke
at once into a run, half carrying the girl with a strong arm about her
waist.
“If we can reach the foothills,” he said, “I think we can dodge 'em, an'
by goin' all night we may reach the river and El Orobo by morning. It's
a long hike, Barbara, but we gotta make it--we gotta, for if daylight
finds us in the Piman country we won't never make it. Anyway,” he
concluded optimistically, “it's all down hill.”
“We'll make it, Billy,” she replied, “if we can get past the sentry.”
“What sentry?” asked Billy. “I didn't see no sentry when I come in.”
“They keep a sentry way down the trail all night,” replied the girl. “In
the daytime he is nearer the village--on the top of this bluff, for from
here he can see the whole valley; but at night they station him farther
away in a narrow part of the trail.”
“It's a mighty good thing you tipped me off,” said Billy; “for I'd a-run
right into him. I thought they was all behind us now.”
After that they went more cautiously, and when they reached the part of
the trail where the sentry might be expected to be found, Barbara warned
Billy of the fact. Like two thieves they crept along in the shadow of
the canyon wall. Inwardly Billy cursed the darkness of the night which
hid from view everything more than a few paces from them; yet it may
have been this very darkness which saved them, since it hid them as
effectually from an enemy as it hid the enemy from them. They had
reached the point where Barbara was positive the sentry should be.
The girl was clinging tightly to Billy's left arm. He could feel the
pressure of her fingers as they sunk into his muscles, sending little
tremors and thrills through his giant frame. Even in the face of death
Billy Byrne could sense the ecstasies of personal contact with this
girl--the only woman he ever had loved or ever would.
And then a black shadow loomed before them, and a rifle flashed in their
faces without a word or a sign of warning.
CHAPTER XVII. “YOU ARE MY GIRL!”
MR. ANTHONY HARDING was pacing back and forth the length of the veranda
of the ranchhouse at El Orobo waiting for some word of hope from those
who had ridden out in search of his daughter, Barbara. Each swirling
dust devil that eddied across the dry flat on either side of the river
roused hopes within his breast that it might have been spurred into
activity by the hoofs of a pony bearing a messenger of good tidings; but
always his hopes were dashed, for no horseman emerged from the heat haze
of the distance where the little dust devils raced playfully among the
cacti and the greasewood.
But at last, in the northwest, a horseman, unheralded by gyrating dust
column, came into sight. Mr. Harding shook his head sorrowfully. It had
not been from this direction that he had expected word of Barbara, yet
he kept his eyes fastened upon the rider until the latter reined in at
the ranchyard and loped a tired and sweating pony to the foot of the
veranda steps. Then Mr. Harding saw who the newcomer was.
“Bridge!” he exclaimed. “What brings you back here? Don't you know that
you endanger us as well as yourself by being seen here? General Villa
will think that we have been harboring you.”
Bridge swung from the saddle and ran up onto the veranda. He paid not
the slightest attention to Anthony Harding's protest.
“How many men you got here that you can depend on?” he asked.
“None,” replied the Easterner. “What do you mean?”
“None!” cried Bridge, incredulity and hopelessness showing upon his
countenance. “Isn't there a Chinaman and a couple of faithful Mexicans?”
“Oh, yes, of course,” assented Mr. Harding; “but what are you driving
at?”
“Pesita is on his way here to clean up El Orobo. He can't be very far
behind me. Call the men you got, and we'll get together all the guns and
ammunition on the ranch, and barricade the ranchhouse. We may be able to
stand 'em off. Have you heard anything of Miss Barbara?”
Anthony Harding shook his head sadly.
“Then we'll have to stay right here and do the best we can,” said
Bridge. “I was thinking we might make a run for it if Miss Barbara was
here; but as she's not we must wait for those who went out after her.”
Mr. Harding summoned the two Mexicans while Bridge ran to the cookhouse
and ordered the Chinaman to the ranchhouse. Then the erstwhile
bookkeeper ransacked the bunkhouse for arms and ammunition. What little
he found he carried to the ranchhouse, and with the help of the others
barricaded the doors and windows of the first floor.
“We'll have to make our fight from the upper windows,” he explained to
the ranch owner. “If Pesita doesn't bring too large a force we may be
able to stand them off until you can get help from Cuivaca. Call up
there now and see if you can get Villa to send help--he ought to protect
you from Pesita. I understand that there is no love lost between the
two.”
Anthony Harding went at once to the telephone and rang for the central
at Cuivaca.
“Tell it to the operator,” shouted Bridge who stood peering through an
opening in the barricade before a front window; “they are coming now,
and the chances are that the first thing they'll do is cut the telephone
wires.”
The Easterner poured his story and appeal for help into the ears of the
girl at the other end of the line, and then for a few moments there was
silence in the room as he listened to her reply.
“Impossible!” and “My God! it can't be true,” Bridge heard the older man
ejaculate, and then he saw him hang up the receiver and turn from the
instrument, his face drawn and pinched with an expression of utter
hopelessness.
“What's wrong?” asked Bridge.
“Villa has turned against the Americans,” replied Harding, dully. “The
operator evidently feels friendly toward us, for she warned me not to
appeal to Villa and told me why. Even now, this minute, the man has a
force of twenty-five hundred ready to march on Columbus, New Mexico.
Three Americans were hanged in Cuivaca this afternoon. It's horrible,
sir! It's horrible! We are as good as dead this very minute. Even if
we stand off Pesita we can never escape to the border through Villa's
forces.”
“It looks bad,” admitted Bridge. “In fact it couldn't look much worse;
but here we are, and while our ammunition holds out about all we can
do is stay here and use it. Will you men stand by us?” he addressed the
Chinaman and the two Mexicans, who assured him that they had no love for
Pesita and would fight for Anthony Harding in preference to going over
to the enemy.
“Good!” exclaimed Bridge, “and now for upstairs. They'll be howling
around here in about five minutes, and we want to give them a reception
they won't forget.”
He led the way to the second floor, where the five took up positions
near the front windows. A short distance from the ranchhouse they could
see the enemy, consisting of a detachment of some twenty of Pesita's
troopers riding at a brisk trot in their direction.
“Pesita's with them,” announced Bridge, presently. “He's the little
fellow on the sorrel. Wait until they are close up, then give them a few
rounds; but go easy on the ammunition--we haven't any too much.”
Pesita, expecting no resistance, rode boldly into the ranchyard. At the
bunkhouse and the office his little force halted while three or four
troopers dismounted and entered the buildings in search of victims.
Disappointed there they moved toward the ranchhouse.
“Lie low!” Bridge cautioned his companions. “Don't let them see you, and
wait till I give the word before you fire.”
On came the horsemen at a slow walk. Bridge waited until they were
within a few yards of the house, then he cried: “Now! Let 'em have it!”
A rattle of rifle fire broke from the upper windows into the ranks of
the Pesitistas. Three troopers reeled and slipped from their saddles.
Two horses dropped in their tracks. Cursing and yelling, the balance of
the horsemen wheeled and galloped away in the direction of the office
building, followed by the fire of the defenders.
“That wasn't so bad,” cried Bridge. “I'll venture a guess that Mr.
Pesita is some surprised--and sore. There they go behind the office.
They'll stay there a few minutes talking it over and getting up their
courage to try it again. Next time they'll come from another direction.
You two,” he continued, turning to the Mexicans, “take positions on
the east and south sides of the house. Sing can remain here with Mr.
Harding. I'll take the north side facing the office. Shoot at the first
man who shows his head. If we can hold them off until dark we may be
able to get away. Whatever happens don't let one of them get close
enough to fire the house. That's what they'll try for.”
It was fifteen minutes before the second attack came. Five dismounted
troopers made a dash for the north side of the house; but when Bridge
dropped the first of them before he had taken ten steps from the office
building and wounded a second the others retreated for shelter.
Time and again as the afternoon wore away Pesita made attempts to get
men close up to the house; but in each instance they were driven back,
until at last they desisted from their efforts to fire the house or rush
it, and contented themselves with firing an occasional shot through the
windows opposite them.
“They're waiting for dark,” said Bridge to Mr. Harding during a
temporary lull in the hostilities, “and then we're goners, unless the
boys come back from across the river in time.”
“Couldn't we get away after dark?” asked the Easterner.
“It's our only hope if help don't reach us,” replied Bridge.
But when night finally fell and the five men made an attempt to leave
the house upon the side away from the office building they were met
with the flash of carbines and the ping of bullets. One of the Mexican
defenders fell, mortally wounded, and the others were barely able to
drag him within and replace the barricade before the door when five
of Pesita's men charged close up to their defenses. These were finally
driven off and again there came a lull; but all hope of escape was gone,
and Bridge reposted the defenders at the upper windows where they might
watch every approach to the house.
As the hours dragged on the hopelessness of their position grew upon the
minds of all. Their ammunition was almost gone--each man had but a few
rounds remaining--and it was evident that Pesita, through an inordinate
desire for revenge, would persist until he had reduced their fortress
and claimed the last of them as his victim.
It was with such cheerful expectations that they awaited the final
assault which would see them without ammunition and defenseless in the
face of a cruel and implacable foe.
It was just before daylight that the anticipated rush occurred. From
every side rang the reports of carbines and the yells of the bandits.
There were scarcely more than a dozen of the original twenty left; but
they made up for their depleted numbers by the rapidity with which they
worked their firearms and the loudness and ferocity of their savage
cries.
And this time they reached the shelter of the veranda and commenced
battering at the door.
At the report of the rifle so close to them Billy Byrne shoved Barbara
quickly to one side and leaped forward to close with the man who barred
their way to liberty.
That they had surprised him even more than he had them was evidenced by
the wildness of his shot which passed harmlessly above their heads as
well as by the fact that he had permitted them to come so close before
engaging them.
To the latter event was attributable his undoing, for it permitted Billy
Byrne to close with him before the Indian could reload his antiquated
weapon. Down the two men went, the American on top, each striving for
a death-hold; but in weight and strength and skill the Piman was far
outclassed by the trained fighter, a part of whose daily workouts had
consisted in wrestling with proficient artists of the mat.
Barbara Harding ran forward to assist her champion but as the men rolled
and tumbled over the ground she could find no opening for a blow that
might not endanger Billy Byrne quite as much as it endangered his
antagonist; but presently she discovered that the American required no
assistance. She saw the Indian's head bending slowly forward beneath the
resistless force of the other's huge muscles, she heard the crack that
announced the parting of the vertebrae and saw the limp thing which
had but a moment before been a man, pulsing with life and vigor, roll
helplessly aside--a harmless and inanimate lump of clay.
Billy Byrne leaped to his feet, shaking himself as a great mastiff might
whose coat had been ruffled in a fight.
“Come!” he whispered. “We gotta beat it now for sure. That guy's shot'll
lead 'em right down to us,” and once more they took up their flight down
toward the valley, along an unknown trail through the darkness of the
night.
For the most part they moved in silence, Billy holding the girl's arm
or hand to steady her over the rough and dangerous portions of the path.
And as they went there grew in Billy's breast a love so deep and so
resistless that he found himself wondering that he had ever imagined
that his former passion for this girl was love.
This new thing surged through him and over him with all the blind,
brutal, compelling force of a mighty tidal wave. It battered down and
swept away the frail barriers of his new-found gentleness. Again he was
the Mucker--hating the artificial wall of social caste which separated
him from this girl; but now he was ready to climb the wall, or, better
still, to batter it down with his huge fists. But the time was not
yet--first he must get Barbara to a place of safety.
On and on they went. The night grew cold. Far ahead there sounded the
occasional pop of a rifle. Billy wondered what it could mean and as they
approached the ranch and he discovered that it came from that direction
he hastened their steps to even greater speed than before.
“Somebody's shootin' up the ranch,” he volunteered. “Wonder who it could
be.”
“Suppose it is your friend and general?” asked the girl.
Billy made no reply. They reached the river and as Billy knew not where
the fords lay he plunged in at the point at which the water first barred
their progress and dragging the girl after him, plowed bull-like for
the opposite shore. Where the water was above his depth he swam while
Barbara clung to his shoulders. Thus they made the passage quickly and
safely.
Billy stopped long enough to shake the water out of his carbine, which
the girl had carried across, and then forged ahead toward the ranchhouse
from which the sounds of battle came now in increased volume.
And at the ranchhouse “hell was popping.” The moment Bridge realized
that some of the attackers had reached the veranda he called the
surviving Mexican and the Chinaman to follow him to the lower floor
where they might stand a better chance to repel this new attack. Mr.
Harding he persuaded to remain upstairs.
Outside a dozen men were battering to force an entrance. Already one
panel had splintered, and as Bridge entered the room he could see the
figures of the bandits through the hole they had made. Raising his
rifle he fired through the aperture. There was a scream as one of the
attackers dropped; but the others only increased their efforts, their
oaths, and their threats of vengeance.
The three defenders poured a few rounds through the sagging door, then
Bridge noted that the Chinaman ceased firing.
“What's the matter?” he asked.
“Allee gonee,” replied Sing, pointing to his ammunition belt.
At the same instant the Mexican threw down his carbine and rushed for
a window on the opposite side of the room. His ammunition was exhausted
and with it had departed his courage. Flight seemed the only course
remaining. Bridge made no effort to stop him. He would have been glad to
fly, too; but he could not leave Anthony Harding, and he was sure that
the older man would prove unequal to any sustained flight on foot.
“You better go, too, Sing,” he said to the Chinaman, placing another
bullet through the door; “there's nothing more that you can do, and it
may be that they are all on this side now--I think they are. You fellows
have fought splendidly. Wish I could give you something more substantial
than thanks; but that's all I have now and shortly Pesita won't even
leave me that much.”
“Allee light,” replied Sing cheerfully, and a second later he was
clambering through the window in the wake of the loyal Mexican.
And then the door crashed in and half a dozen troopers followed by
Pesita himself burst into the room.
Bridge was standing at the foot of the stairs, his carbine clubbed, for
he had just spent his last bullet. He knew that he must die; but he was
determined to make them purchase his life as dearly as he could, and to
die in defense of Anthony Harding, the father of the girl he loved, even
though hopelessly.
Pesita saw from the American's attitude that he had no more ammunition.
He struck up the carbine of a trooper who was about to shoot Bridge
down.
“Wait!” commanded the bandit. “Cease firing! His ammunition is gone.
Will you surrender?” he asked of Bridge.
“Not until I have beaten from the heads of one or two of your friends,”
he replied, “that which their egotism leads them to imagine are brains.
No, if you take me alive, Pesita, you will have to kill me to do it.”
Pesita shrugged. “Very well,” he said, indifferently, “it makes little
difference to me--that stairway is as good as a wall. These brave
defenders of the liberty of poor, bleeding Mexico will make an excellent
firing squad. Attention, my children! Ready! Aim!”
Eleven carbines were leveled at Bridge. In the ghastly light of early
dawn the sallow complexions of the Mexicans took on a weird hue. The
American made a wry face, a slight shudder shook his slender frame, and
then he squared his shoulders and looked Pesita smilingly in the face.
The figure of a man appeared at the window through which the Chinaman
and the loyal Mexican had escaped. Quick eyes took in the scene within
the room.
“Hey!” he yelled. “Cut the rough stuff!” and leaped into the room.
Pesita, surprised by the interruption, turned toward the intruder before
he had given the command to fire. A smile lit his features when he saw
who it was.
“Ah!” he exclaimed, “my dear Captain Byrne. Just in time to see a
traitor and a spy pay the penalty for his crimes.”
“Nothin' doin',” growled Billy Byrne, and then he threw his carbine to
his shoulder and took careful aim at Pesita's face.
How easy it would have been to have hesitated a moment in the window
before he made his presence known--just long enough for Pesita to speak
the single word that would have sent eleven bullets speeding into the
body of the man who loved Barbara and whom Billy believed the girl
loved. But did such a thought occur to Billy Byrne of Grand Avenue? It
did not. He forgot every other consideration beyond his loyalty to a
friend. Bridge and Pesita were looking at him in wide-eyed astonishment.
“Lay down your carbines!” Billy shot his command at the firing squad.
“Lay 'em down or I'll bore Pesita. Tell 'em to lay 'em down, Pesita. I
gotta bead on your beezer.”
Pesita did as he was bid, his yellow face pasty with rage.
“Now their cartridge belts!” snapped Billy, and when these had been
deposited upon the floor he told Bridge to disarm the bandit chief.
“Is Mr. Harding safe?” he asked of Bridge, and receiving an affirmative
he called upstairs for the older man to descend.
As Mr. Harding reached the foot of the stairs Barbara entered the room
by the window through which Billy had come--a window which opened upon
the side veranda.
“Now we gotta hike,” announced Billy. “It won't never be safe for
none of you here after this, not even if you do think Villa's your
friend--which he ain't the friend of no American.”
“We know that now,” said Mr. Harding, and repeated to Billy that which
the telephone operator had told him earlier in the day.
Marching Pesita and his men ahead of them Billy and the others made
their way to the rear of the office building where the horses of the
bandits were tethered. They were each armed now from the discarded
weapons of the raiders, and well supplied with ammunition. The Chinaman
and the loyal Mexican also discovered themselves when they learned that
the tables had been turned upon Pesita. They, too, were armed and all
were mounted, and when Billy had loaded the remaining weapons upon the
balance of the horses the party rode away, driving Pesita's live stock
and arms ahead of them.
“I imagine,” remarked Bridge, “that you've rather discouraged
pursuit for a while at least,” but pursuit came sooner than they had
anticipated.
They had reached a point on the river not far from Jose's when a band
of horsemen appeared approaching from the west. Billy urged his party to
greater speed that they might avoid a meeting if possible; but it soon
became evident that the strangers had no intention of permitting them to
go unchallenged, for they altered their course and increased their
speed so that they were soon bearing down upon the fugitives at a rapid
gallop.
“I guess,” said Billy, “that we'd better open up on 'em. It's a cinch
they ain't no friends of ours anywhere in these parts.”
“Hadn't we better wait a moment,” said Mr. Harding; “we do not want to
chance making any mistake.”
“It ain't never a mistake to shoot a Dago,” replied Billy. His eyes
were fastened upon the approaching horsemen, and he presently gave an
exclamation of recognition. “There's Rozales,” he said. “I couldn't
mistake that beanpole nowheres. We're safe enough in takin' a shot
at 'em if Rosie's with 'em. He's Pesita's head guy,” and he drew his
revolver and took a single shot in the direction of his former comrades.
Bridge followed his example. The oncoming Pesitistas reined in. Billy
returned his revolver to its holster and drew his carbine.
“You ride on ahead,” he said to Mr. Harding and Barbara. “Bridge and
I'll bring up the rear.”
Then he stopped his pony and turning took deliberate aim at the knot of
horsemen to their left. A bandit tumbled from his saddle and the fight
was on.
Fortunately for the Americans Rozales had but a handful of men with him
and Rozales himself was never keen for a fight in the open.
All morning he hovered around the rear of the escaping Americans; but
neither side did much damage to the other, and during the afternoon
Billy noticed that Rozales merely followed within sight of them, after
having dispatched one of his men back in the direction from which they
had come.
“After reinforcements,” commented Byrne.
All day they rode without meeting with any roving bands of soldiers or
bandits, and the explanation was all too sinister to the Americans when
coupled with the knowledge that Villa was to attack an American town
that night.
“I wish we could reach the border in time to warn 'em,” said Billy; “but
they ain't no chance. If we cross before sunup tomorrow morning we'll be
doin' well.”
He had scarcely spoken to Barbara Harding all day, for his duties as
rear guard had kept him busy; nor had he conversed much with Bridge,
though he had often eyed the latter whose gaze wandered many times to
the slender, graceful figure of the girl ahead of them.
Billy was thinking as he never had thought before. It seemed to him a
cruel fate that had so shaped their destinies that his best friend loved
the girl Billy loved. That Bridge was ignorant of Billy's infatuation
for her the latter well knew. He could not blame Bridge, nor could he,
upon the other hand, quite reconcile himself to the more than apparent
adoration which marked his friend's attitude toward Barbara.
As daylight waned the fugitives realized from the shuffling gait
of their mounts, from drooping heads and dull eyes that rest was
imperative. They themselves were fagged, too, and when a ranchhouse
loomed in front of them they decided to halt for much-needed
recuperation.
Here they found three Americans who were totally unaware of Villa's
contemplated raid across the border, and who when they were informed of
it were doubly glad to welcome six extra carbines, for Barbara not
only was armed but was eminently qualified to expend ammunition without
wasting it.
Rozales and his small band halted out of range of the ranch; but they
went hungry while their quarry fed themselves and their tired mounts.
The Clark brothers and their cousin, a man by the name of Mason, who
were the sole inhabitants of the ranch counseled a long rest--two hours
at least, for the border was still ten miles away and speed at the last
moment might be their sole means of salvation.
Billy was for moving on at once before the reinforcements, for which he
was sure Rozales had dispatched his messenger, could overtake them. But
the others were tired and argued, too, that upon jaded ponies they could
not hope to escape and so they waited, until, just as they were ready to
continue their flight, flight became impossible.
Darkness had fallen when the little party commenced to resaddle
their ponies and in the midst of their labors there came a rude and
disheartening interruption. Billy had kept either the Chinaman or Bridge
constantly upon watch toward the direction in which Rozales' men lolled
smoking in the dark, and it was the crack of Bridge's carbine which
awoke the Americans to the fact that though the border lay but a few
miles away they were still far from safety.
As he fired Bridge turned in his saddle and shouted to the others to
make for the shelter of the ranchhouse.
“There are two hundred of them,” he cried. “Run for cover!”
Billy and the Clark brothers leaped to their saddles and spurred toward
the point where Bridge sat pumping lead into the advancing enemy.
Mason and Mr. Harding hurried Barbara to the questionable safety of the
ranchhouse. The Mexican followed them, and Bridge ordered Sing back to
assist in barricading the doors and windows, while he and Billy and the
Clark boys held the bandits in momentary check.
Falling back slowly and firing constantly as they came the four
approached the house while Pesita and his full band advanced cautiously
after them. They had almost reached the house when Bridge lunged forward
from his saddle. The Clark boys had dismounted and were leading their
ponies inside the house. Billy alone noted the wounding of his friend.
Without an instant's hesitation he slipped from his saddle, ran back
to where Bridge lay and lifted him in his arms. Bullets were pattering
thick about them. A horseman far in advance of his fellows galloped
forward with drawn saber to cut down the gringos.
Billy, casting an occasional glance behind, saw the danger in time to
meet it--just, in fact, as the weapon was cutting through the air toward
his head. Dropping Bridge and dodging to one side he managed to escape
the cut, and before the swordsman could recover Billy had leaped to his
pony's side and seizing the rider about the waist dragged him to the
ground.
“Rozales!” he exclaimed, and struck the man as he had never struck
another in all his life, with the full force of his mighty muscles
backed by his great weight, with clenched fist full in the face.
There was a spurting of blood and a splintering of bone, and Captain
Guillermo Rozales sank senseless to the ground, his career of crime and
rapine ended forever.
Again Billy lifted Bridge in his arms and this time he succeeded in
reaching the ranchhouse without opposition though a little crimson
stream trickled down his left arm to drop upon the face of his friend as
he deposited Bridge upon the floor of the house.
All night the Pesitistas circled the lone ranchhouse. All night they
poured their volleys into the adobe walls and through the barricaded
windows. All night the little band of defenders fought gallantly for
their lives; but as day approached the futility of their endeavors was
borne in upon them, for of the nine one was dead and three wounded, and
the numbers of their assailants seemed undiminished.
Billy Byrne had been lying all night upon his stomach before a window
firing out into the darkness at the dim forms which occasionally showed
against the dull, dead background of the moonless desert.
Presently he leaped to his feet and crossed the floor to the room in
which the horses had been placed.
“Everybody fire toward the rear of the house as fast as they can,” said
Billy. “I want a clear space for my getaway.”
“Where you goin?” asked one of the Clark brothers.
“North,” replied Billy, “after some of Funston's men on the border.”
“But they won't cross,” said Mr. Harding. “Washington won't let them.”
“They gotta,” snapped Billy Byrne, “an' they will when they know there's
an American girl here with a bunch of Dagos yappin' around.”
“You'll be killed,” said Price Clark. “You can't never get through.”
“Leave it to me,” replied Billy. “Just get ready an' open that back door
when I give the word, an' then shut it again in a hurry when I've gone
through.”
He led a horse from the side room, and mounted it.
“Open her up, boes!” he shouted, and “S'long everybody!”
Price Clark swung the door open. Billy put spurs to his mount and threw
himself forward flat against the animal's neck. Another moment he was
through and a rattling fusillade of shots proclaimed the fact that his
bold feat had not gone unnoted by the foe.
The little Mexican pony shot like a bolt from a crossbow out across the
level desert. The rattling of carbines only served to add speed to its
frightened feet. Billy sat erect in the saddle, guiding the horse with
his left hand and working his revolver methodically with his right.
At a window behind him Barbara Harding stood breathless and spellbound
until he had disappeared into the gloom of the early morning darkness
to the north, then she turned with a weary sigh and resumed her place
beside the wounded Bridge whose head she bathed with cool water, while
he tossed in the delirium of fever.
The first streaks of daylight were piercing the heavens, the Pesitistas
were rallying for a decisive charge, the hopes of the little band of
besieged were at low ebb when from the west there sounded the pounding
of many hoofs.
“Villa,” moaned Westcott Clark, hopelessly. “We're done for now, sure
enough. He must be comin' back from his raid on the border.”
In the faint light of dawn they saw a column of horsemen deploy suddenly
into a long, thin line which galloped forward over the flat earth,
coming toward them like a huge, relentless engine of destruction.
The Pesitistas were watching too. They had ceased firing and sat in
their saddles forgetful of their contemplated charge.
The occupants of the ranchhouse were gathered at the small windows.
“What's them?” cried Mason--“them things floating over 'em.”
“They're guidons!” exclaimed Price Clark “--the guidons of the United
States cavalry regiment. See 'em! See 'em? God! but don't they look
good?”
There was a wild whoop from the lungs of the advancing cavalrymen.
Pesita's troops answered it with a scattering volley, and a moment later
the Americans were among them in that famous revolver charge which is
now history.
Daylight had come revealing to the watchers in the ranchhouse the
figures of the combatants. In the thick of the fight loomed the giant
figure of a man in nondescript garb which more closely resembled the
apparel of the Pesitistas than it did the uniforms of the American
soldiery, yet it was with them he fought. Barbara's eyes were the first
to detect him.
“There's Mr. Byrne,” she cried. “It must have been he who brought the
troops.”
“Why, he hasn't had time to reach the border yet,” remonstrated one of
the Clark boys, “much less get back here with help.”
“There he is though,” said Mr. Harding. “It's certainly strange. I can't
understand what American troops are doing across the border--especially
under the present administration.”
The Pesitistas held their ground for but a moment then they wheeled and
fled; but not before Pesita himself had forced his pony close to that of
Billy Byrne.
“Traitor!” screamed the bandit. “You shall die for this,” and fired
point-blank at the American.
Billy felt a burning sensation in his already wounded left arm; but his
right was still good.
“For poor, bleeding Mexico!” he cried, and put a bullet through Pesita's
forehead.
Under escort of the men of the Thirteenth Cavalry who had pursued
Villa's raiders into Mexico and upon whom Billy Byrne had stumbled by
chance, the little party of fugitives came safely to United States soil,
where all but one breathed sighs of heartfelt relief.
Bridge was given first aid by members of the hospital corps, who assured
Billy that his friend would not die. Mr. Harding and Barbara were taken
in by the wife of an officer, and it was at the quarters of the latter
that Billy Byrne found her alone in the sitting-room.
The girl looked up as he entered, a sad smile upon her face. She was
about to ask him of his wound; but he gave her no opportunity.
“I've come for you,” he said. “I gave you up once when I thought it was
better for you to marry a man in your own class. I won't give you up
again. You're mine--you're my girl, and I'm goin' to take you with me.
Were goin' to Galveston as fast as we can, and from there we're goin' to
Rio. You belonged to me long before Bridge saw you. He can't have you.
Nobody can have you but me, and if anyone tries to keep me from taking
you they'll get killed.”
He took a step nearer that brought him close to her. She did not
shrink--only looked up into his face with wide eyes filled with wonder.
He seized her roughly in his arms.
“You are my girl!” he cried hoarsely. “Kiss me!”
“Wait!” she said. “First tell me what you meant by saying that Bridge
couldn't have me. I never knew that Bridge wanted me, and I certainly
have never wanted Bridge. O Billy! Why didn't you do this long ago?
Months ago in New York I wanted you to take me; but you left me to
another man whom I didn't love. I thought you had ceased to care, Billy,
and since we have been together here--since that night in the room back
of the office--you have made me feel that I was nothing to you. Take me,
Billy! Take me anywhere in the world that you go. I love you and I'll
slave for you--anything just to be with you.”
“Barbara!” cried Billy Byrne, and then his voice was smothered by the
pressure of warm, red lips against his own.
A half hour later Billy stepped out into the street to make his way to
the railroad station that he might procure transportation for three
to Galveston. Anthony Harding was going with them. He had listened
to Barbara's pleas, and had finally volunteered to back Billy Byrne's
flight from the jurisdiction of the law, or at least to a place where,
under a new name, he could start life over again and live it as the
son-in-law of old Anthony Harding should live.
Among the crowd viewing the havoc wrought by the raiders the previous
night was a large man with a red face. It happened that he turned
suddenly about as Billy Byrne was on the point of passing behind him.
Both men started as recognition lighted their faces and he of the red
face found himself looking down the barrel of a six-shooter.
“Put it up, Byrne,” he admonished the other coolly. “I didn't know you
were so good on the draw.”
“I'm good on the draw all right, Flannagan,” said Billy, “and I ain't
drawin' for amusement neither. I gotta chance to get away and live
straight, and have a little happiness in life, and, Flannagan, the man
who tries to crab my game is goin' to get himself croaked. I'll never go
back to stir alive. See?”
“Yep,” said Flannagan, “I see; but I ain't tryin' to crab your game. I
ain't down here after you this trip. Where you been, anyway, that you
don't know the war's over? Why Coke Sheehan confessed a month ago that
it was him that croaked Schneider, and the governor pardoned you about
ten days ago.”
“You stringin' me?” asked Billy, a vicious glint in his eyes.
“On the level,” Flannagan assured him. “Wait, I gotta clippin' from the
Trib in my clothes somewheres that gives all the dope.”
He drew some papers from his coat pocket and handed one to Billy.
“Turn your back and hold up your hands while I read,” said Byrne, and as
Flannagan did as he was bid Billy unfolded the soiled bit of newspaper
and read that which set him a-trembling with nervous excitement.
A moment later Detective Sergeant Flannagan ventured a rearward glance
to note how Byrne was receiving the joyful tidings which the newspaper
article contained.
“Well, I'll be!” ejaculated the sleuth, for Billy Byrne was already
a hundred yards away and breaking all records in his dash for the
sitting-room he had quitted but a few minutes before.
It was a happy and contented trio who took the train the following day
on their way back to New York City after bidding Bridge good-bye in the
improvised hospital and exacting his promise that he would visit them in
New York in the near future.
It was a month later; spring was filling the southland with new, sweet
life. The joy of living was reflected in the song of birds and the
opening of buds. Beside a slow-moving stream a man squatted before a
tiny fire. A battered tin can, half filled with water stood close to the
burning embers. Upon a sharpened stick the man roasted a bit of meat,
and as he watched it curling at the edges as the flame licked it he
spoke aloud though there was none to hear:
Just for a con I'd like to know (yes, he crossed over long ago;
And he was right, believe me, bo!) if somewhere in the South,
Down where the clouds lie on the sea, he found his sweet Penelope
With buds of roses in her hair and kisses on her mouth.
“Which is what they will be singing about me one of these days,” he
commented.