by Zane Grey
Dick stiffened in his seat. Thorne, with sudden clenching of hands, wheeled toward the window.
“Rojas!” he whispered.
CHAPTER II
MERCEDES CASTANEDA
The dark face vanished. Dick Gale heard footsteps and the tinkle of spurs. He strode to the window, and was in time to see a Mexican swagger into the front door of the saloon. Dick had only a glimpse; but in that he saw a huge black sombrero with a gaudy band, the back of a short, tight-fitting jacket, a heavy pearl-handled gun swinging with a fringe of sash, and close-fitting trousers spreading wide at the bottom. There were men passing in the street, also several Mexicans lounging against the hitching-rail at the curb.
“Did you see him? Where did he go?” whispered Thorne, as he joined Gale. “Those Greasers out there with the cartridge belts crossed over their breasts—they are rebels.”
“I think he went into the saloon,” replied Dick. “He had a gun, but for all I can see the Greasers out there are unarmed.”
“Never believe it! There! Look, Dick! That fellow’s a guard, though he seems so unconcerned. See, he has a short carbine, almost concealed.… There’s another Greaser farther down the path. I’m afraid Rojas has the house spotted.”
“If we could only be sure.”
“I’m sure, Dick. Let’s cross the hall; I want to see how it looks from the other side of the house.”
Gale followed Thorne out of the restaurant into the high-ceiled corridor which evidently divided the hotel, opening into the street and running back to a patio. A few dim, yellow lamps flickered. A Mexican with a blanket round his shoulders stood in the front entrance. Back toward the patio there were sounds of boots on the stone floor. Shadows flitted across that end of the corridor. Thorne entered a huge chamber which was even more poorly lighted than the hall. It contained a table littered with papers, a few high-backed chairs, a couple of couches, and was evidently a parlor.
“Mercedes has been meeting me here,” said Thorne. “At this hour she comes every moment or so to the head of the stairs there, and if I am here she comes down. Mostly there are people in this room a little later. We go out into the plaza. It faces the dark side of the house, and that’s the place I must slip out with her if there’s any chance at all to get away.”
They peered out of the open window. The plaza was gloomy, and at first glance apparently deserted. In a moment, however, Gale made out a slow-pacing dark form on the path. Farther down there was another. No particular keenness was required to see in these forms a sentinel-like stealthiness.
Gripping Gale’s arm, Thorne pulled back from the window.
“You saw them,” he whispered. “It’s just as I feared. Rojas has the place surrounded. I should have taken Mercedes away. But I had no time—no chance! I’m bound!… There’s Mercedes now! My God!… Dick, think—think if there’s a way to get her out of this trap!”
Gale turned as his friend went down the room. In the dim light at the head of the stairs stood the slim, muffled figure of a woman. When she saw Thorne she flew noiselessly down the stairway to him. He caught her in his arms. Then she spoke softly, brokenly, in a low, swift voice. It was a mingling of incoherent Spanish and English; but to Gale it was mellow, deep, unutterably tender, a voice full of joy, fear, passion, hope, and love. Upon Gale it had an unaccountable effect. He found himself thrilling, wondering.
Thorne led the girl to the center of the room, under the light where Gale stood. She had raised a white hand, holding a black-laced mantilla half aside. Dick saw a small, dark head, proudly held, an oval face half hidden, white as a flower, and magnificent black eyes.
Then Thorne spoke.
“Mercedes—Dick Gale, an old friend—the best friend I ever had.”
She swept the mantilla back over her head, disclosing a lovely face, strange and striking to Gale in its pride and fire, its intensity.
“Señor Gale—ah! I cannot speak my happiness. His friend!”
“Yes, Mercedes; my friend and yours,” said Thorne, speaking rapidly. “We’ll have need of him. Dear, there’s bad news and no time to break it gently. The priest did not come. He must have been detained. And listen—be brave, dear Mercedes—Rojas is here!”
She uttered an inarticulate cry, the poignant terror of which shook Gale’s nerve, and swayed as if she would faint. Thorne caught her, and in husky voice importuned her to bear up.
“My darling! For God’s sake don’t faint—don’t go to pieces! We’d be lost! We’ve got a chance. We’ll think of something. Be strong! Fight!”
It was plain to Gale that Thorne was distracted. He scarcely knew what he was saying. Pale and shaking, he clasped Mercedes to him. Her terror had struck him helpless. It was so intense—it was so full of horrible certainty of what fate awaited her.
She cried out in Spanish, beseeching him; and as he shook his head, she changed to English:
“Señor, my lover, I will be strong—I will fight—I will obey. But swear by my Virgin, if need be to save me from Rojas—you will kill me!”
“Mercedes! Yes, I’ll swear,” he replied hoarsely. “I know—I’d rather have you dead than— But don’t give up. Rojas can’t be sure of you, or he wouldn’t wait. He’s in there. He’s got his men there—all around us. But he hesitates. A beast like Rojas doesn’t stand idle for nothing. I tell you we’ve a chance. Dick, here, will think of something. We’ll slip away. Then he’ll take you somewhere. Only—speak to him—show him you won’t weaken. Mercedes, this is more than love and happiness for us. It’s life or death.”
She became quiet, and slowly recovered control of herself.
Suddenly she wheeled to face Gale with proud dark eyes, tragic sweetness of appeal, and exquisite grace.
“Señor, you are an American. You cannot know the Spanish blood—the peon bandit’s hate and cruelty. I wish to die before Rojas’s hand touches me. If he takes me alive, then the hour, the little day that my life lasts afterward will be tortured—torture of hell. If I live two days his brutal men will have me. If I live three, the dogs of his camp… Señor, have you a sister whom you love? Help Señor Thorne to save me. He is a soldier. He is bound. He must not betray his honor, his duty, for me.… Ah, you two splendid Americans—so big, so strong, so fierce! What is that little black half-breed slave Rojas to such men? Rojas is a coward. Now, let me waste no more precious time. I am ready. I will be brave.”
She came close to Gale, holding out her white hands, a woman all fire and soul and passion. To Gale she was wonderful. His heart leaped. As he bent over her hands and kissed them he seemed to feel himself renewed, remade.
“Señorita,” he said, “I am happy to be your servant. I can conceive of no greater pleasure than giving the service you require.”
“And what is that?” inquired Thorne, hurriedly.
“That of incapacitating Señor Rojas for tonight, and perhaps several nights to come,” replied Gale.
“Dick, what will you do?” asked Thorne, now in alarm.
“I’ll make a row in that saloon,” returned Dick, bluntly. “I’ll start something. I’ll rush Rojas and his crowd. I’ll—”
“Lord, no; you mustn’t, Dick—you’ll be knifed!” cried Thorne. He was in distress, yet his eyes were shining.
“I’ll take a chance. Maybe I can surprise that slow Greaser bunch and get away before they know what’s happened.… You be ready watching at the window. When the row starts those fellows out there in the plaza will run into the saloon. Then you slip out, go straight through the plaza down the street. It’s a dark street, I remember. I’ll catch up with you before you get far.”
Thorne gasped, but did not say a word. Mercedes leaned against him, her white hands now at her breast, her great eyes watching Gale as he went out.
In the corridor Gale stopped long enough to pull on a pair of heavy gloves, t
o muss his hair, and disarrange his collar. Then he stepped into the restaurant, went through, and halted in the door leading into the saloon. His five feet eleven inches and one hundred and eighty pounds were more noticeable there, and it was part of his plan to attract attention to himself. No one, however, appeared to notice him. The pool-players were noisily intent on their game, the same crowd of motley-robed Mexicans hung over the reeking bar. Gale’s roving glance soon fixed upon the man he took to be Rojas. He recognized the huge, high-peaked, black sombrero with its ornamented band. The Mexican’s face was turned aside. He was in earnest, excited colloquy with a dozen or more comrades, most of whom were sitting round a table. They were listening, talking, drinking. The fact that they wore cartridge belts crossed over their breasts satisfied that these were the rebels. He had noted the belts of the Mexicans outside, who were apparently guards. A waiter brought more drinks to this group at the table, and this caused the leader to turn so Gale could see his face. It was indeed the sinister, sneering face of the bandit Rojas. Gale gazed at the man with curiosity. He was under medium height, and striking in appearance only because of his dandified dress and evil visage. He wore a lace scarf, a tight, bright-buttoned jacket, a buckskin vest embroidered in red, a sash and belt joined by an enormous silver clasp. Gale saw again the pearl-handled gun swinging at the bandit’s hip. Jewels flashed in his scarf. There were gold rings in his ears and diamonds on his fingers.
Gale became conscious of an inward fire that threatened to overrun his coolness. Other emotions harried his self-control. It seemed as if sight of the man liberated or created a devil in Gale. And at the bottom of his feelings there seemed to be a wonder at himself, a strange satisfaction for the something that had come to him.
He stepped out of the doorway, down the couple of steps to the floor of the saloon, and he staggered a little, simulating drunkenness. He fell over the pool tables, jostled Mexicans at the bar, laughed like a maudlin fool, and, with his hat slouched down, crowded here and there. Presently his eye caught sight of the group of cowboys whom he had before noticed with such interest.
They were still in a corner somewhat isolated. With fertile mind working, Gale lurched over to them. He remembered his many unsuccessful attempts to get acquainted with cowboys. If he were to get any help from these silent aloof rangers it must be by striking fire from them in one swift stroke. Planting himself squarely before the two tall cowboys who were standing, he looked straight into their lean, bronzed faces. He spared a full moment for that keen cool gaze before he spoke.
“I’m not drunk. I’m throwing a bluff, and I mean to start a rough house. I’m going to rush that damned bandit Rojas. It’s to save a girl—to give her lover, who is my friend, a chance to escape with her. When I start a row my friend will try to slip out with her. Every door and window is watched. I’ve got to raise hell to draw the guards in.… Well, you’re my countrymen. We’re in Mexico. A beautiful girl’s honor and life are at stake. Now, gentlemen, watch me!”
One cowboy’s eyes narrowed, blinking a little, and his lean jaw dropped; the other’s hard face rippled with a fleeting smile.
Gale backed away, and his pulse leaped when he saw the two cowboys, as if with one purpose, slowly stride after him. Then Gale swerved, staggering along, brushed against the tables, kicked over the empty chairs. He passed Rojas and his gang, and out of the tail of his eye saw that the bandit was watching him, waving his hands and talking fiercely. The hum of the many voices grew louder, and when Dick lurched against a table, overturning it and spilling glasses into the laps of several Mexicans, there arose a shrill cry. He had succeeded in attracting attention; almost every face turned his way. One of the insulted men, a little tawny fellow, leaped up to confront Gale, and in a frenzy screamed a volley of Spanish, of which Gale distinguished “Gringo!” The Mexican stamped and made a threatening move with his right hand. Dick swung his leg and with a swift side kick knocked the fellows feet from under him, whirling him down with a thud.
The action was performed so suddenly, so adroitly, it made the Mexican such a weakling, so like a tumbled tenpin, that the shrill jabbering hushed. Gale knew this to be the significant moment.
Wheeling, he rushed at Rojas. It was his old line-breaking plunge. Neither Rojas nor his men had time to move. The black-skinned bandit’s face turned a dirty white; his jaw dropped; he would have shrieked if Gale had not hit him. The blow swept him backward against his men. Then Gale’s heavy body, swiftly following with the momentum of that rush, struck the little group of rebels. They went down with table and chairs in a sliding crash.
Gale carried by his plunge, went with them. Like a cat he landed on top. As he rose his powerful hands fastened on Rojas. He jerked the little bandit off the tangled pile of struggling, yelling men, and, swinging him with terrific force, let go his hold. Rojas slid along the floor, knocking over tables and chairs. Gale bounded back, dragged Rojas up, handling him as if he were a limp sack.
A shot rang out above the yells. Gale heard the jingle of breaking glass. The room darkened perceptibly. He flashed a glance backward. The two cowboys were between him and the crowd of frantic rebels. One cowboy held two guns low down, level in front of him. The other had his gun raised and aimed. On the instant it spouted red and white. With the crack came the crashing of glass, another darkening shade over the room. With a cry Gale slung the bleeding Rojas from him. The bandit struck a table, toppled over it, fell, and lay prone.
Another shot made the room full of moving shadows, with light only back of the bar. A white-clad figure rushed at Gale. He tripped the man, but had to kick hard to disengage himself from grasping hands. Another figure closed in on Gale. This one was dark, swift. A blade glinted—described a circle aloft. Simultaneously with a close, red flash the knife wavered; the man wielding it stumbled backward. In the din Gale did not hear a report, but the Mexican’s fall was significant. Then pandemonium broke loose. The din became a roar. Gale heard shots that sounded like dull spats in the distance. The big lamp behind the bar seemingly split, then sputtered and went out, leaving the room in darkness.
Gale leaped toward the restaurant door, which was outlined faintly by the yellow light within. Right and left he pushed the groping men who jostled with him. He vaulted a pool table, sent tables and chairs flying, and gained the door, to be the first of a wedging mob to squeeze through. One sweep of his arm knocked the restaurant lamp from its stand; and he ran out, leaving darkness behind him. A few bounds took him into the parlor. It was deserted. Thorne had gotten away with Mercedes.
It was then Gale slowed up. For the space of perhaps sixty seconds he had been moving with startling velocity. He peered cautiously out into the plaza. The paths, the benches, the shady places under the trees contained no skulking men. He ran out, keeping to the shade, and did not go into the path till he was halfway through the plaza. Under a street lamp at the far end of the path he thought he saw two dark figures. He ran faster, and soon reached the street. The uproar back in the hotel began to diminish, or else he was getting out of hearing. The few people he saw close at hand were all coming his way, and only the foremost showed any excitement. Gale walked swiftly, peering ahead for two figures. Presently he saw them—one tall, wearing a cape; the other slight, mantled. Gale drew a sharp breath of relief. Thorne and Mercedes were not far ahead.
From time to time Thorne looked back. He strode swiftly, almost carrying Mercedes, who clung closely to him. She, too, looked back. Once Gale saw her white face flash in the light of a street lamp. He began to overhaul them; and soon, when the last lamp had been passed and the street was dark, he ventured a whistle. Thorne heard it, for he turned, whistled a low reply, and went on. Not for some distance beyond, where the street ended in open country, did they halt to wait. The desert began here. Gale felt the soft sand under his feet and saw the grotesque forms of cactus. Then he came up with the fugitives.
“Dick! Are you—all rig
ht?” panted Thorne, grasping Gale.
“I’m—out of breath—but—O.K.,” replied Gale.
“Good! Good!” choked Thorne. “I was scared—helpless.… Dick, it worked splendidly. We had no trouble. What on earth did you do?”
“I made the row, all right,” said Dick.
“Good Heavens! It was like a row I once heard made by a mob. But the shots, Dick—were they at you? They paralyzed me. Then the yells. What happened? Those guards of Rojas ran round in front at the first shot. Tell me what happened.”
“While I was rushing Rojas a couple of cowboys shot out the lamplights. A Mexican who pulled a knife on me got hurt, I guess. Then I think there was some shooting from the rebels after the room was dark.”
“Rushing Rojas?” queried Thorne, leaning close to Dick. His voice was thrilling, exultant, deep with a joy that yet needed confirmation. “What did you do to him?”
“I handed him one off side, tackled, then tried a forward pass,” replied Dick, lightly speaking the football vernacular so familiar to Thorne.
Thorne leaned closer, his fine face showing fierce and corded in the starlight. “Tell me straight,” he demanded, in thick voice.
Gale then divined something of the suffering Thorne had undergone—something of the hot, wild, vengeful passion of a lover who must have brutal truth.
It stilled Dick’s lighter mood, and he was about to reply when Mercedes pressed close to him, touched his hands, looked up into his face with wonderful eyes. He thought he would not soon forget their beauty—the shadow of pain that had been, the hope dawning so fugitively.
“Dear lady,” said Gale, with voice not wholly steady, “Rojas himself will hound you no more tonight, nor for many nights.”
She seemed to shake, to thrill, to rise with the intelligence. She pressed his hand close over her heaving breast. Gale felt the quick throb of her heart.
