by Unknown
"Well," demanded the heavyweight.
"I sent for you to explain something to me, sir," said the Mexican general harshly.
"What is it?"
"This letter and map."
Pasquale stepped forward, handed two papers to Harrison, and quickly stepped back till his back was against the wall of the house. Something in his manner stirred the banked suspicions of the American. Already his nerves were keyed to unusual tension, for he knew the moment of crux was hurrying toward him. Why had the troopers fallen back so far? Why was Pasquale so anxious to put a wide space between himself and his prisoner?
The eyes of the film actor, clouded with doubt of what was about to take place, fell to the papers in his hand. He was looking at the letter and the map he had sent to Governor Farrugia.
Instantly his mind was made up. But as the blue barrel of his revolver flashed into sight there came the simultaneous roar of a volley. The force of it seemed to lift Harrison from his feet. Before his sagging knees had touched the dust the man was dead.
Pasquale drew a forty-five and fired three times into the lax and huddled body. He nodded to the men in the smoke-filled windows upstairs.
"Come down and bury this Gringo dog's body," he ordered.
They trooped down noisily. Pasquale kicked the body carelessly with his toe. "He was a traitor to the cause. The proof is in that paper. Hand it to me, Juan."
The general read the letter aloud. "He would have betrayed us all but for the patriotism of a messenger who would not be bribed. The man deserved death. Not so?"
They shouted approval and added, "Viva Pasquale!" in an enthusiastic roar. Ramon Culvera, who had just arrived on the scene, led the cheering with much vigor.
From every house men, boys, and women poured. The streets filled with noisy patriots. Guns popped here and there to ventilate the energy of their owners. Troopers galloped up and down the road in clouds of dust shooting into the air as they rode. Boys who would have run their legs off to obey a whim of Harrison spat contemptuously upon the face of the "Gringo cabrone."
Drawn by the hubbub, Captain Holcomb hurried from his house. He looked down at the lifeless body four soldiers were carrying away and turned to Pasquale for an explanation.
The general handed him the papers that proved Harrison's guilt. "I have executed a traitor, captain. The dog would have sold us out to Farrugia. Is his punishment not just?"
Holcomb looked the papers over and handed them back to his chief. "He got what was coming to him," he answered quietly.
"I have witnesses to show that he was drawing his revolver to assassinate me at the very moment he was shot. My men were just in time."
"It was fortunate for you your men happened to be so handy," replied the American officer with just a suggestion of dryness.
For Holcomb knew, just as Yeager did, that the scene had been set by Pasquale for the killing. His men had been stationed in the windows above, unknown to the victim. The heavyweight had been tempted to reach for his weapon by the certainty that he had come to the end of the passage. Doing so, he had given the signal for his own death. Had he failed to do this, the Mexican general would have sprung the trap himself in another minute. Fortunately this had not been necessary. Pasquale was in a position to prove to the United States Government, in case it became inquisitive, that when the man had been confronted with his guilt he had tried to kill him and had been shot down red-handed.
Half an hour later Holcomb came into his house and found Steve cleaning a pair of revolvers. The captain tossed his hat on the bed and sat down.
"Up to us, looks like," he commented.
Yeager nodded silently.
"Harrison hadn't a look-in. The old scoundrel had the cards stacked," continued the officer.
"Yep. Chad sat in against a cold deck. He made a big mistake when he let the old man take the play."
"Everything fixed for to-night?"
"Far as it can be. We've just got to take a big chance and trust to luck being with us," answered Steve.
"Guess you'll have to make your own luck. I spoke to Pasquale about a game here to-night. He grabbed at the bait. Said he would bring Culvera and Ochampa. I'll make a long session of it so as to give you all the time you need."
"Better have a boy here to serve the liquor and cigars. If you should hear shooting, and Gabriel gets anxious about it, you can send the boy to find out what it's about. That will give us a few minutes more to get away."
"Sure your dope is strong enough?"
"The man who fixed it ought to know. He's a registered druggist at Phoenix," replied the range-rider.
Yeager had never before sat in the anxious seat as nervously as he did during the next few hours. His nature was not of the kind to borrow trouble. Usually he could accept responsibility without letting it worry him. But to-night he was playing for big stakes--his own life certainly was in the hazard, probably those of Farrar and Threewit, possibly that of the Texan. And what weighed with him more than all these was the fate of the young girl in the back room upstairs waiting with a leaden heart for this dreadful thing that was to befall her. It was in the game that a man must take his fighting chance. But a girl--and above all girls Ruth--the thought of it stabbed his heart like a knife.
CHAPTER XXII
A CONSPIRACY
In settling accounts with Harrison the Mexican general had prepared the scene, had arranged every detail of it carefully so as to eliminate any possible chance the heavyweight might otherwise have. Yeager had no intention of letting Pasquale fix the conditions against him as he had against the prizefighter.
"Old Gabriel was holding four aces and Chad only a busted flush. Pasquale knew it all the time. Harrison must 'a' guessed it too. But if he did, I don't see why he waited for the old man to spring his trap," said Steve.
"It's a matter of temperament, I reckon. Some fellows are game enough when you put 'em up against trouble good and hard, but they hang back and wait for it to come to 'em. I expect Harrison didn't know how to play his hand. Looked that way to me when he talked with me. Likely he figured he had better wait and see what happened," surmised the captain.
"He waited too long."
"Till it was too late to call for a new deal. He had to play those dealt him."
"Different here. We'll do the dealing ourselves, captain. Pasquale has been through the deck and taken out all the big picture cards, but I expect I can rustle up a six-full that will come handy." Yeager smiled as he spoke at the .45 he was bestowing about his person.
Together they set the table for poker, putting on it two new decks, one blue and one red, and a box of chips that had seen service in many a midnight fray. On a side table were cigars, cigarettes, and liquor in plenty. Holcomb intended to see that his guests were properly entertained while Steve played the bigger and more dangerous game outside.
The range-rider knew that the odds were against him, that any one of fifty trifling accidents might bring to failure the plan he had made. All he could do was to make his preparations as skillfully as he could and then try to carry them out coolly and with determination.
The Mexican boy who had been hired to act as an attendant on the card-players arrived and Yeager took his leave. The captain followed him to the porch.
"Good luck, Steve," he said quietly.
"Same to you, captain. We'll talk this all over across the line in God's country some time."
"Sure," nodded Holcomb. "Well, so-long."
The younger man answered the nod casually and turned away down the street. Neither of them thought of shaking hands. Whatever was to happen was all in the day's work. Both of them belonged to that type of Westerner which sees a thing through without any dramatics. That this happened to be a particularly critical thing had no effect on their manner.
Holcomb lit a cigar and sat down on the porch to wait for his guests. They came presently. First were Pasquale and Ochampa, rough and ready as to clothes, unshaven, betraying continually the class from which they ha
d risen. Culvera dropped in after a few minutes. He had discarded his uniform and was in the picturesque regalia of the young Mexican cavalier. From jingling silver spurs to the costly gold-laced sombrero he was every inch the dandy. His manners were the pink of urbanity. Nothing was lacking in particular to the affectionate deference he showed his chief. It suggested somehow the love of a son and the admiration of a devoted admirer.
The general was riding a wave of exhilaration. He had trodden down another of his enemies and was about to take to himself the spoils of the battle. Still in his vigorous prime, he was assured the stars were beckoning him to take the place in Mexico City that neither Madero nor Huerta had been strong enough to hold. He promised himself to settle down to moderation, to have done with the wild drinking-bouts that still occasionally interfered with his efficiency. Meanwhile, to-night he was again saying farewell to his bachelor days. He drank liberally but not excessively.
Ochampa proposed the health and happiness of the bride. It was drunk with enthusiasm. The general gave them the United States, the sister republic to the north, and spoke affectingly of his desire to promote a better feeling between the countries by this marriage. The host had not expected his poker party to develop so much oratory, but he rose briefly to the occasion. The subject of his remarks was, "A United Mexico."
But it was Culvera who capped the climax. He rose, wineglass in hand, and waited impressively for silence. For five minutes his tongue flowed on in praises of the Liberator of the people. He heaped superlatives on extravagant approval after the fashion of our political orators.
"Need I put a name to this patriot and hero who has won the unbounded love and loyalty of my youth?" he asked rotundly. "Need I name the Bolivar, the Washington of Mexico, the next president of this great republic? If so, I but repeat the name that is on the lips of all the thousands of our people to whom he is as a father--Gabriel Pasquale."
Holcomb smiled behind the hand that stroked his mustache. There was nobody present who did not know pretty accurately how far Ramon's attachment to his chief went. Gabriel himself, who embraced him affectionately in thanks, had not the least doubt. But if he had no illusions in the matter, he did not intend on that account to warn his lieutenant prematurely that he was next on the list to Harrison.
Poker presently absorbed their attention. Holcomb was the genial host, watchful of their wants and solicitous that they should be supplied. No sign of anxiety betrayed that he was keyed up to a high nervous tension. He told stories, laughed at those of the others, high spaded for drinks (though as a matter of fact he was as host furnishing the liquor), made post-mortem examinations of the deck, and otherwise showed a proper interest. It was quite necessary that when Pasquale looked back over the evening with later developments in mind he should not be able to find any intimations that his host was accessory to the plan to escape.
Hour after hour slipped away. The captain began to let himself hope that the forlorn hope of Yeager had brought safety to his friends. Surely by this time he must either have won or lost his throw for liberty.
A single shot broke the stillness of the night.
Pasquale, dealing, stopped with a card in his hand.
"Funny thing how the guns of sentries are always going off accidentally," remarked Holcomb casually. "Boy, look to the glasses of these gentlemen."
The deal was finished. Culvera opened the pot. The captain stayed. Ochampa hesitated.
One shot, a second, and then a fusillade of them shattered the quiet.
Pasquale flung down his cards and rose hurriedly, overturning his chair. "Mil diablos! What's to pay?" he cried.
The others followed him out of the room and house. He ran down the street as fast as a boy. Already men were emerging from houses half dressed. The sound of shots came from back of the general's headquarters. Pasquale doubled around the house and vaulted a fence. He butted into an excited group and flung men to right and left.
"What's the matter?" he demanded.
A soldier pointed to the open window of the room that had been occupied by Ruth Seymour. "She's gone, Your Excellency."
"Gone! Gone where?" roared Gabriel.
"Heaven knows. Her friends have rescued her."
Pasquale broke into a storm of curses.
CHAPTER XXIII
TRAPPED
After leaving Holcomb, Yeager walked down to the river-bed, followed the bank for a couple of hundred yards, and crept forward on all fours through the alfalfa pasture to the barb-wire fence that paralleled the road at some distance. He crawled beneath the lowest wire and moved through the mesquite to a point from which he could see the building where Farrar and Threewit were held prisoners. Two guards with rifles across their shoulders paced up and down outside.
Here Steve lay motionless for about half an hour. He believed that before the poker game began some one of the party would drop around to see that all was quiet and regular in the camp. His guess was a good one. Pasquale himself, arm in arm with Ochampa, made the rounds and stopped for a moment to speak to the sentries in front of the prison. The man crouched in the bear grass could tell that Gabriel was in high good-humor. He jested with the men and clapped them on the shoulder jovially. He laughed as heartily at his own witticisms as they did.
"There shall be mescal to-morrow for the whole army to drink the health of the Liberator and his bride. See to it, Ochampa," he ordered as they walked away.
"Viva Pasquale the Liberator," cried the sentries in a fine fervor of enthusiasm.
Presently the man in hiding stole quietly to the road and advanced down it at a leisurely pace.
"Promising them mescal, eh?" he murmured. "Well, I'll bet a bird in the hand is worth twenty or most sixteen in the bush." He patted affectionately a bottle that lay snug in his pocket.
"Who goes?" demanded one of the prison guards as he approached.
"Pedro Cabenza."
Steve chatted with them for a few moments before he produced his bird in the hand. They told him of what Pasquale had promised. Slyly he looked around to see that they were alone and drew from his pocket the bottle.
"Ho, compañero! Behold what I have. Gringo whiskey--better far than mescal," he cried softly as he handed the treasure to one of the guards.
The man glanced around hurriedly, even as had Cabenza, then tilted the mouth of the bottle over his lips and let a long stiff drink gurgle down his throat. He patted his fat paunch contentedly and handed the bottle to his companion. The second guard also drank deeply.
Cabenza put an arm across the shoulders of each and drew their heads close while he whispered confidential scandal about Pasquale and Ramon Culvera. The two men listened greedily, eager for more. It happened that there was no truth in the salacious tidbits which Pedro retailed, but he invented glibly and that did just as well.
The heads of his listeners began to nod. They murmured drowsy interjections and leaned more heavily upon his arms. Ineffectually they tried to shake off the lassitude that was creeping over their senses.
"Keep watch, brother, while I take just forty winks," begged one, and fairly thrust his rifle into the hand of Yeager.
The soldier staggered to the adobe wall and slumped down beside the door. His eyes closed, fluttered open again, shut a second time. They did not open. He was fast asleep.
The second guard sat down beside him and smiled up sleepily at the standing man. "Manuel sleeps on duty. He is--a fool. I do--not--sleep. No, I--I--"
His head drooped on his chest. Steve took the rifle that fell from his relaxed hand.
Instantly the American was tapping gently on the door. "Threewit--Farrar!" he called softly. "This is Steve."
There was the sound of quick footsteps. A voice within answered in a whisper.
"Yes, Steve. This is Frank."
From his pocket the range-rider took a bunch of skeleton keys. It was no trouble to find one that would unlock the door, but in addition to this fastening there was a padlock. With a hatchet which he had brought Yeager pri
ed the staple out. In another moment the door was open.
"Help me drag these fellows inside," ordered the cowpuncher, taking command promptly. "Frank, tear one of those blankets into strips. We've got to tie their hands and feet and gag them. Shuck your coat, Threewit. You've got to wear this fellow's blouse and sombrero. You, too, Frank. It's Manuel's castaways for you. Move lively, boys. This is surely going to be our busy evening."
"What's the programme?" asked Farrar, doing what he was told to do.
Steve explained briefly. "Old Pasquale has got Ruth Seymour here at his house. He intends to marry her to-morrow. I don't mean he shall. A good friend of mine is entertaining the old scoundrel to-night and some of the other high moguls in camp. My notion is to slip into old Gabriel's headquarters and rescue Ruth."
