by Zane Grey
“I fear it’s too late now. I should have done that last night. You see, we’re over the line—”
“Are we in Mexican territory now?” queried Gale, sharply.
“I guess yes, old boy. That’s what complicates it. Rojas and his rebels have Casita in their hands. But Rojas without his rebels would be able to stop me, get the girl, and make for his mountain haunts. If Mercedes is really watched—if her identity is known, which I am sure is the case—we couldn’t get far from this house before I’d be knifed and she seized.”
“Good Heavens! Thorne, can that sort of thing happen less than a stone’s throw from the United States line?” asked Gale, incredulously.
“It can happen, and don’t you forget it. You don’t seem to realize the power these guerrilla leaders, these rebel captains, and particularly these bandits, exercise over the mass of Mexicans. A bandit is a man of honor in Mexico. He is feared, envied, loved. In the hearts of the people he stands next to the national idol—the bullfighter, the matador. The race has a wild, barbarian, bloody strain. Take Quinteros, for instance. He was a peon, a slave. He became a famous bandit. At the outbreak of the revolution he proclaimed himself a leader, and with a band of followers he devastated whole counties. The opposition to federal forces was only a blind to rob and riot and carry off women. The motto of this man and his followers was: ‘Let us enjoy ourselves while we may!’
“There are other bandits besides Quinteros, not so famous or such great leaders, but just as bloodthirsty. I’ve seen Rojas. He’s a handsome, bold, sneering devil, vainer than any peacock. He decks himself in gold lace and silver trappings, in all the finery he can steal. He was one of the rebels who helped sack Sinaloa and carry off half a million in money and valuables. Rojas spends gold like he spills blood. But he is chiefly famous for abducting women. The peon girls consider it an honor to be ridden off with. Rojas has shown a penchant for girls of the better class.”
Thorne wiped the perspiration from his pale face and bent a dark gaze out of the window before he resumed his talk.
“Consider what the position of Mercedes really is. I can’t get any help from our side of the line. If so, I don’t know where. The population on that side is mostly Mexican, absolutely in sympathy with whatever actuates those on this side. The whole caboodle of Greasers on both sides belong to the class in sympathy with the rebels, the class that secretly respects men like Rojas and hates an aristocrat like Mercedes. They would conspire to throw her into his power. Rojas can turn all the hidden underground influences to his ends. Unless I thwart him he’ll get Mercedes as easily as he can light a cigarette. But I’ll kill him or some of his gang or her before I let him get her.… This is the situation, old friend. I’ve little time to spare. I face arrest for desertion. Rojas is in town. I think I was followed to this hotel. The priest has betrayed me or has been stopped. Mercedes is here alone, waiting, absolutely dependent upon me to save her from—from … She’s the sweetest, loveliest girl!… In a few moments—sooner or later there’ll be hell here! Dick, are you with me?”
Dick Gale drew a long, deep breath. A coldness, a lethargy, an indifference that had weighed upon him for months had passed out of his being. On the instant he could not speak, but his hand closed powerfully upon his friend’s. Thorne’s face changed wonderfully, the distress, the fear, the appeal all vanishing in a smile of passionate gratefulness.
Then Dick’s gaze, attracted by some slight sound, shot over his friend’s shoulder to see a face at the window—a handsome, bold, sneering face, with glittering dark eyes that flashed in sinister intentness.
Dick stiffened in his seat. Thorne, with sudden clenching of hands, wheeled toward the window.
“Rojas!” he whispered.
CHAPTER 2
MERCEDES CASTAÑEDA
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-lace 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 round 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, an 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 torture—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,” repined 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, to 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 Gale 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. She’s in the house. Rojas is here to get 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 fellow’s 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 lit
tle 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!
