AN ACT OF TREACHERY.
He pointed inquiringly down the hillside at a young figure on horseback
that was wearily climbing the declivity.
"He voss come a goot long vay, alretty," commented Geisler, taking in
the dust-covered appearance of horse and rider. The gray powder, which
covered both, was visible even at that distance.
"He's an American," went on Mr. Merrill, "a young man, too. I don't
recollect ever having seen him before round here. Wonder what he
wants?"
While he spoke, the rider came rapidly forward, and presently drew rein
beside the miner and his super. He was a young man, tall, well
muscled, and with a well-poised head, but his eyes were set rather too
close, and there was something about that clean-shaven chin that rather
made you distrust him.
"I've beaten those kids to it," he muttered to himself, as his eyes
first took in the two solitary figures standing at the gate. "The rest
will be easy."
Bob Harding, for it was the exiled West Pointer, could hardly help
smiling, in fact, as he comprehended the simplicity of his task.
"Good morning," he said in a pleasant voice, as he rode up. "Is this
the Esmeralda Mine?"
"It is," rejoined Mr. Merrill, "and I am its owner. Come in and rest
yourself, won't you? You look fagged."
It was the hearty, cordial greeting of one American in a strange land
to a fellow countryman. Bob Harding accepted with alacrity. He
slipped from his saddle as if he were weary to death, and, indeed, his
travel-stained clothes supported that idea. If the two men facing him,
though, could have seen him scattering dust in liberal proportions over
himself and his horse a short time before, they might not have fallen
into his trap so easily. With quirt and spur, he had worked his horse
into a sweat. At such tricks, Bob Harding was an adept.
But of all this, of course, neither Mr. Merrill nor his super had any
idea. To their unsuspecting minds, Bob Harding was a fellow-countryman
in difficulty, and they treated him accordingly.
"Phew!" remarked Harding, slipping his reins over his arm, and
following Mr. Merrill within the stockade, "I had a tough time getting
away from those insurrectos."
The remark had just the effect he intended it should have. Mr. Merrill
regarded him with astonishment. Geisler muttered gutturally.
"The insurrectos!" exclaimed Mr. Merrill. "Are they near at hand?"
"They were," rejoined Bob Harding, secretly rejoicing to see how well
his plan was working, "but they are now in retreat. The government
troops met them near San Angelo, and drove them back to the west."
"I had no idea there were any government troops closer than Rosario."
"Nor had Madero's flying column, as he called it. But he found out a
few hours ago. In the confusion I escaped and rode on here. I have a
message for you from your son."
"My son! Good Heavens! Is Jack in the hands----"
"He was a prisoner of Madero, but he has escaped, and is now lying
wounded at a spot I will guide you to."
"Himmel! Yack Merrill a prisoner, alretty!" gasped Herr Geisler.
"Not only Master Merrill, but two boy friends of his, an old gentleman,
whom I should imagine was their instructor, and a cowboy."
"Yes, it must be them!" exclaimed Mr. Merrill. "But how, in the name
of all that's wonderful, did they come across the border? I thought
they were at the Haunted Mesa, in New Mexico."
"It is too long a story to relate to you now, señors," rejoined Bob
Harding, "I may tell you, though, that they are safe at the hacienda of
a friend. But your boy is seriously wounded, and must see you at once."
"Good Heavens, Geisler! This is terrible news, Mr.--Mr.----"
"Mr. Allen, of New York," put in Harding glibly.
"Terrible news that Mr. Allen of New York brings us. You were with
them, Mr. Allen?"
"I was, sir. In my capacity as war correspondent for the _Planet_, I
was with Madero's column. But, in the moment of defeat at the hands of
the regulars, the miserable greasers turned on me as a gringo. I was
compelled to flee for my life. First, however, I cut the bonds of our
young friends and their comrades, and under cover of night we escaped."
Bob Harding was certainly warming to his subject as he went along. Mr.
Merrill regarded him with gratitude.
"I've a horse in the stables, Mr. Allen," he said. "I'll saddle up,
right away, and accompany you. How can I ever thank you for all you
have done for my boy and his friends?"
"Don't mention it," said Allen glibly; "we Americans must do little
things for one another, you know. But hurry, sir. Your boy was
calling for you when I left."
"Poor lad!" exclaimed the deluded mine owner, hastening toward the
stable. "Geisler, you must stay and look after the place. How far is
it, Mr. Allen?"
"Not more than ten miles, sir," was the rejoinder.
"I can ride there and back before dark, then," declared Mr. Merrill.
"If the lad is strong enough to be moved, I'll bring him with me."
All this time Geisler had been examining "Mr. Allen's" horse with a
singular expression. As the miner owner vanished in the direction of
the stable, he spoke:
"Dot poor horse of yours vos aboudt tuckered in, aindt it?" he inquired.
"Yes, poor brute," rejoined Bob Harding, "I rode at a furious pace."
"Und got all der dust on his chest, und none on his hind quvarters,"
commented the German suspiciously.
But Harding returned his gaze frankly, and wiped his brow with a great
appearance of weariness.
"Is that so?" he said. "I didn't notice it. But then, I rode so hard,
and----"
"Are you ready, Mr. Allen?"
It was Mr. Merrill's voice. He rode up, as he spoke, on a big
chestnut, which he had saddled and bridled faster than he had ever
equipped a horse before.
"All ready, sir," was the response, as Bob Harding swung himself into
his saddle again.
Geisler had run into the office. Now he reappeared, holding something
under his coat. He approached Mr. Merrill's side, and, while Bob
Harding was leaning over examining his saddle-girth, the German slipped
the object he held to his employer.
"Idt's a gun," he whispered. "Keep idt handy. Py chiminy, I dink
maype you need him pefore you get through."
"With the insurrectos in retreat?" laughed Mr. Merrill. "Geisler, you
are getting nervous in your old age. Come, Mr. Allen, let's be getting
forward, I can hardly wait till I see my boy."
The horses plunged forward and clattered down the hillside.
Geisler watched them till a bend in the road below hid them from view.
Then he turned slowly to reenter the stockade.
"Py chiminy," he muttered, emitting huge clouds of blue smoke, "I dink
me dere vos a vood-pile in dot nigger, py cracious."