While Stephen was talking with the Señora, a gong in an inner room
clanged.
“It is the time for our evening meal, Señor,” she said, with a pretty
little Spanish accent. After Loring had perjured his soul by swearing
that he was loath to change his occupation for the pleasure of eating,
she smiled at him mockingly, and led the way into the dining-room.
The Hernandez ranch was the largest in the Los Andes region, and the
house was furnished and decorated in an elaborate manner. The walls of
the dining-room were hung with gay pictures, and the table, set for
supper, boasted several pieces of silver.
Señor Hernandez presided at the table with true Latin hospitality, and
Stephen, his previous protestations to the contrary notwithstanding, did
full justice to the excellent fare, at the same time keeping up a lively
conversation with the Señora. The men with him ate vigorously, the only
break in their steady eating being caused by glances at the pretty
Mexican girl who served the meal.
After supper, Stephen and the Señor went outside, and walked about the
ranch, studying the possibilities of defense in case of trouble. At
Stephen’s suggestion, they led the horses from the corral, and picketed
them behind the house, as the first thought of any marauders would
undoubtedly be to raid the corral.
Like most adobe houses, the ranch house consisted of a main building,
with two wings running at right angles, thus enclosing three sides of a
court. All the windows of the ground floor had iron shutters, fastening
on the inside. The ground about the building was as flat as a board, and
was broken only by the lines of the irrigation ditches which ran amidst
the alfalfa fields.
“If we station a man to watch upon the roof,” said Stephen, as they
returned to the house, “it will be all the precaution that we need
to take. On a clear night such as this, a man can see far in every
direction.”
“It will be well,” answered the Señor. “And, this door here, it is a
heavy one. It will be hard to break down.”
“I don’t believe that it will come to that,” laughed Stephen. “I don’t
believe that we shall have any trouble at all.”
“I pray not,” answered Señor Hernandez. His was not a nature which was
exhilarated by prospective danger.
When they re-entered the main room, Stephen glanced quickly from the
Señora to her husband.
“It is strange,” he said to himself, “how a little swarthy man like
that could have won such a beauty for a wife. I suppose, though, that
if she really loves him, she does not care if his ears are a bit like
an elephant’s, his eyes too close together, and his nose as thin as a
razor.” The husband of a pretty woman is not likely to have his charms
exaggerated by other men.
They spent the evening smoking and talking. The Señora rolled cigarettes
with the greatest deftness, and the smile with which she administered the
final little pat did much to enhance the taste of the tobacco.
At ten o’clock the Señora rose, and after calling the servant to light
the men to their rooms, bade them good night.
It had been agreed that Stephen should stand the first watch. He
insisted that the Señor, tired as he was from two sleepless nights of
worry, should not share his vigil.
Having exchanged his carbine for one of his host’s Winchesters, Loring
mounted the ladder that ran from the hallway of the second story to the
roof. It was a perfect night. The heavens were glittering with stars, and
all was silent. Not a breath of air came from across the desert to cool
the copings, which were still warm from the day’s heat.
Stephen leaned his rifle against the chimney, then felt in his pockets
for a little sack of coarse “Ricorte” which some one in the town had
given to him. He filled his pipe carefully, packing the tobacco down with
his forefinger, till all was even; then striking a match, he held it far
from him, until the blue flame of the sulphur burned to a clear yellow.
He held the match to his pipe until the bowl glowed in an even circle of
fire, and the smoke drew through the stem in rich, full clouds. Then,
picking up his rifle again, he began a careful lookout over the plain
towards the pass.
A fact which greatly facilitates the building of air castles, is that,
unlike most buildings, they need no foundations. The castles which
Stephen built that night, as he paced up and down the roof, biting
hard on his pipe-stem, would have done credit to a very good school of
architecture. The general design may be imagined from the fact that time
and time again he drew from his pocket a little crumpled envelope, and
holding it close to the glow of his pipe, read and reread it. Once he
carried it to his lips, and with a feeling almost as of sacrilege, kissed
it. Then he turned sharply, for on the roof behind him he heard light
footsteps and the tinkle of a woman’s laughter.
“Oh, but Señor Loring is a faithful lover,” exclaimed Pepita, stepping
toward him.
Even in the darkness, Stephen felt himself blushing up to his hair. He
stammered, then laughed: “I plead guilty, but I am not generally like
that.”
“It does no harm,” she murmured softly. “And the Señorita, does she also
care so much?”
“Not in the least,” answered Stephen. “The Señorita does not even know
that I care.”
“Oh, you think so? Women are not so—how do you say—? so blind,” laughed
the Señora. “But you have not asked me why I am here, Señor.”
“No,” answered Stephen rather bluntly. In the light of his reveries of
the past hour he felt rather ashamed of the little flirtation that he had
carried on after dinner with the Señora.
“You need not be embarrassed,” she went on, laughing at his stiffness.
“It was not to see the gallant Señor that I came, though no doubt there
are many who—”
Loring silenced her with an imploring gesture.
“No, I came to see if all were well. I was afraid that I heard noises,”
she confessed.
“All right, so far,” said Stephen. “I do not think that we shall have any
trouble.”
“Then I will again go down,” she said.
Stephen walked with her over to the ladder, and bowing low over her hand,
whispered a low “_Buenas noches!_” As he helped her to the ladder, he
looked into her eyes rather curiously. He could not understand their
expression.
When she had her foot upon the uppermost rung, she said good night to
him. Then, as he turned, she said, half shyly: “The letter, Señor; you
will watch the _carta_ of the Señorita well?”
Laughing softly, yet not altogether gaily, she ran down the ladder.
“My husband, he is good,” she reflected. “Ah, very good, but he is as
homely as a—monkey.”
Wiping two little tears from the corners of her eyes, she stepped quickly
back into her room.
The time passed very slowly for Stephen. The clock in the courtyard below
struck two. His rifle barrel began to feel cold in his fingers, as he
fought against sleep. The night had grown thicker, and he could no longer
see far out into the distance.
“It will be morning soon,” he thought. “I don’t believe that the Yaquis
mean business this time.”
Even as he spoke, his ear caught a low sound. Then there was a silence.
Doubtingly, he leaned far out over the wall, and listened intently. Again
he heard the sound; again it ceased. Then once more it arose and became
continuous,—very soft, but insistent, a solid, dull, irregular thud, as
of many hoofs beating upon soft ground. The blood in Stephen’s face
boiled with quivering excitement. The hoof-beats came nearer and nearer,
then stopped. The next sound that he heard was a grating click by the
corral, as of some one slipping down the bars. He thought with lightning
rapidity: “A shot will be the best way to awaken the men.”
Almost instantly afterwards he saw against the gray-white of the opposite
side of the court a shadow, then another and another. Kneeling behind the
coping, he covered the leader with his rifle.
The click of the action as he cocked his Winchester sounded to him
preternaturally loud. He dropped the muzzle of his rifle a fraction of
an inch until the first shadow drifted across the sights. He fired, and
the shadow dropped. The flash of his rifle was answered from the dark by
a dozen spurts of flame. All around him the bullets whined, or clicked
against the dry adobe, sending great chips flying in all directions.
Three times Loring fired, lying with the butt of his rifle cuddled close
against his cheek. Would the men below never hear!
As the vague shapes rushed across the court for the door with a shrill
yell, five knife-like jets of flame shot from the windows, and the
reports echoed staccato in answer to the fusillade from the courtyard.
The leaders of the Yaquis had almost reached the shelter of the doorway,
but the angle windows fairly spat fire as the defenders emptied their
repeaters. Unable to face the withering fire the raiders wavered, then
fell back to the line of the irrigation ditches, whence they sent a rain
of bullets against the windows of the houses. The tinkle of breaking
glass on all sides was mingled with the reports of the rifles. The
surprise had been complete for the Yaquis, as they had expected to find
the ranch unprotected.
As soon as this first attack was repulsed, Stephen ran to the ladder and
jumped down to join the others. His rifle barrel was burning hot from the
rapidity of his fire.
He found the men all gathered in one room. It was a strange looking group
which the flashes of the rifles revealed in the smoky air, half dressed,
kneeling by the shutters, shooting viciously out into the darkness, at
the blurred things in the ditches. A bullet whistled by Stephen’s ear as
he entered the room, and with a dull spat buried itself in the plaster
behind him.
“Easy on the cartridges, boys!” he called. “They may rush again.” His
advice was well called for, as in their excitement the men were firing
wildly.
“It is lucky that there are no windows in the back of the house,” he
exclaimed to Señor Hernandez.
The latter was engaged in trying to make himself an inconspicuous target.
There was the sound of footsteps at the door of the room and a blinding
glare of light, as Pepita entered, carrying a large lamp. Stephen
snatched it from her and hurled it out the window through the splintered
panes. But its work had been done. One of the men by the window sobbed,
staggered to his feet, and leaned out into the night, shaking his fist
towards the ditches. Then he fell face downward across the ledge, where
for an instant he was silhouetted by the last flicker of the lamp below.
Loring flung himself upon him and dragged him back into the room, but
not before the body was riddled with bullets. Stephen felt the sting of
several as they grazed his clothes, by some miracle leaving him unhurt.
“_Dios!_” gasped the woman.
“Lie down!” shouted Loring, forcing her to the floor. Then he took the
dead man’s place by the shutter, and began to fire methodically.
Encouraged by their success, the Yaquis again swarmed forward. The
whiplike crack of five Winchesters checked them before they were within
the courtyard.
The black of the night began to turn to gray-blue with the hint of dawn.
The figures in the ditches stirred, and as they began to run for their
ponies, the defenders fired into them with telling effect. Then, in
contrast to the previous rattle of shots, came the sound of the hoofs of
a hundred ponies, scampering back up the trail.
“All over!” called out Stephen. Rising from his knees, he leaned out
of the casement, and sent one more shot towards the flying Yaquis. It
brought no response.
They carried Haskins, the man who had been shot, into the next room, and
laid him on the bed. He was quite dead. The Señora followed, sobbing.
Wildly she turned to Stephen as he tried to comfort her.
“You, Señor—you do not know what it is to kill, by madness, by folly.”
“Not know?—I—not know?” Stephen smiled a smile that was not good to see,
as he broke off.
“Good God!” he thought, “had it left no trace on him, that haunting
vision of two corpses flung twisted and out of shape on the wreckage of
timber, those two things that had been men sent out of life by his guilty
hand? Had it not lived with him by night and refused to be put aside by
day? Had they not risen up in the dark hours and called him by a name
from which he shrank like a blow, and now this woman told him he could
not know what it meant to kill a man!”
He put his hands in his pockets, bowed his head, and walked slowly back
into the other room.
The light breaking fast in the eastern sky, showed a disheveled scene.
Mattresses were scattered on the floor, the bedding was thrown about the
room, all of the windows were smashed. By each casement was a pile of
empty brass cartridge shells. By one window was a mess of something red.
The air was stale, and filled with acid-tasting powder smoke.
Loring went downstairs, and slipping back the bolts on the heavy door,
stepped out into the cool of the early morning. Outside everything seemed
in strange order, compared with the scene that he had left. He started on
a tour of investigation about the ranch. The ditches amidst the alfalfa
showed no trace of the death-dealing occupants of an hour before. As
he walked around the corner of an outbuilding, he stumbled over a body
which the Yaquis had overlooked in their flight. The Indian’s stiff,
square shoes lay with their toes unbending in the dust. The blue denim of
the overalls and the buckle of the suspenders showed the trademark of a
Chicago firm! A bullet hole was clean through the middle of the swarthy,
bronze-colored forehead. Even through the rough clothing, the flat,
rangey build of the man was evident. The hair, falling forward in the
dust, was coarse and black.
“Poor devil!” thought Stephen. “He has ridden on his last raid.”
He walked quietly away from the body, and went back to the house.
“Everything is all right,” he reported.
Soon the stove was lighted, and coffee boiling. The men were laughing and
telling stories. The Señor strode up and down, twisting his little spikes
of mustachios, and exclaiming upon the valor of the defense.
When they sat down to breakfast, there was a seat too many at the table.
Loring thought of the silent form in the room above, and for a moment
felt weak. Then, shaking off his depression, he entered into the general
hilarity. Time after time, the servant passed the great platter of dry
_tortillas_. The big cakes tasted delicious to the tired men.
As they finished breakfast, the sound of a bugle call sent every one to
the window. Outside was a troop of Mexican cavalry, hot on the trail of
the Yaquis. Señor Hernandez invited the officers to enter, and while he
pressed whisky upon them, gave a voluble account of the fight. He spoke
in such rapid Spanish that Stephen could understand little; but from the
frequent sweeping gestures, he judged that the story lost nothing in the
telling.
The officers remained but a short while, then remounted, and rode at a
sharp trot towards the hills.
“I wonder that the government does not send enough troops to wipe out
these fellows. These cavalry will only drive them back into the hills,
and in a few months they will again swoop down upon the outlying towns
and ranches, just as they have been doing for the past ten years,”
thought Stephen.
After breakfast, Loring prepared to return to Los Andes. The others had
accepted the invitation of Señor Hernandez to stay for a few days as his
guests. A spirit of restlessness pervaded Stephen, and prevented him from
remaining.
The Señor was to arrange to send home Haskins’s body.
“He came from Trinidad, he always said. Guess he had folks there,” one of
the men had volunteered.
Just as Loring was mounting, Pepita ran forward, and whispered something
to him.
He shook his head in reply.
“Try and see!” was her rejoinder.
The thought which she had put into his head made the long ride back to
Los Andes pass very quickly.
The town had resumed its normal appearance. The loafers were again
stretched upon the steps of the little stores or on the pavements. Those
who were not rolling cigarettes were comfortably asleep.
“_Los Americanos vamos_,” was the answer to Stephen’s inquiries.
After leaving his borrowed horse at a stable, he wandered idly towards
the plaza. Now that the reaction had come, he felt very tired. Spying a
bench beneath some palm trees, he stretched himself upon it, and in the
security of him who has nothing, dozed peacefully.
A mosquito, buzzing vapidly about his head, caused him to exert himself
to the extent of a few useless blows. A wagon, rumbling down the street,
caused him to look up. Then after these two exhibitions of energy, he
fell soundly asleep.