Delphi Collected Works of Edgar Rice Burroughs (Illustrated) (Series Four Book 26)

by Edgar Rice Burroughs

  The figure of a man appeared at the window through which the Chinaman and the loyal Mexican had escaped. Quick eyes took in the scene within the room.

  “Hey!” he yelled. “Cut the rough stuff!” and leaped into the room.

  Pesita, surprised by the interruption, turned toward the intruder before he had given the command to fire. A smile lit his features when he saw who it was.

  “Ah!” he exclaimed, “my dear Captain Byrne. Just in time to see a traitor and a spy pay the penalty for his crimes.”

  “Nothin’ doin’,” growled Billy Byrne, and then he threw his carbine to his shoulder and took careful aim at Pesita’s face.

  How easy it would have been to have hesitated a moment in the window before he made his presence known — just long enough for Pesita to speak the single word that would have sent eleven bullets speeding into the body of the man who loved Barbara and whom Billy believed the girl loved. But did such a thought occur to Billy Byrne of Grand Avenue? It did not. He forgot every other consideration beyond his loyalty to a friend. Bridge and Pesita were looking at him in wide-eyed astonishment.

  “Lay down your carbines!” Billy shot his command at the firing squad. “Lay ’em down or I’ll bore Pesita. Tell ’em to lay ’em down, Pesita. I gotta bead on your beezer.”

  Pesita did as he was bid, his yellow face pasty with rage.

  “Now their cartridge belts!” snapped Billy, and when these had been deposited upon the floor he told Bridge to disarm the bandit chief.

  “Is Mr. Harding safe?” he asked of Bridge, and receiving an affirmative he called upstairs for the older man to descend.

  As Mr. Harding reached the foot of the stairs Barbara entered the room by the window through which Billy had come — a window which opened upon the side veranda.

  “Now we gotta hike,” announced Billy. “It won’t never be safe for none of you here after this, not even if you do think Villa’s your friend — which he ain’t the friend of no American.”

  “We know that now,” said Mr. Harding, and repeated to Billy that which the telephone operator had told him earlier in the day.

  Marching Pesita and his men ahead of them Billy and the others made their way to the rear of the office building where the horses of the bandits were tethered. They were each armed now from the discarded weapons of the raiders, and well supplied with ammunition. The Chinaman and the loyal Mexican also discovered themselves when they learned that the tables had been turned upon Pesita. They, too, were armed and all were mounted, and when Billy had loaded the remaining weapons upon the balance of the horses the party rode away, driving Pesita’s live stock and arms ahead of them.

  “I imagine,” remarked Bridge, “that you’ve rather discouraged pursuit for a while at least,” but pursuit came sooner than they had anticipated.

  They had reached a point on the river not far from Jose’s when a band of horsemen appeared approaching from the west. Billy urged his party to greater speed that they might avoid a meeting if possible; but it soon became evident that the strangers had no intention of permitting them to go unchallenged, for they altered their course and increased their speed so that they were soon bearing down upon the fugitives at a rapid gallop.

  “I guess,” said Billy, “that we’d better open up on ‘em. It’s a cinch they ain’t no friends of ours anywhere in these parts.”

  “Hadn’t we better wait a moment,” said Mr. Harding; “we do not want to chance making any mistake.”

  “It ain’t never a mistake to shoot a Dago,” replied Billy. His eyes were fastened upon the approaching horsemen, and he presently gave an exclamation of recognition. “There’s Rozales,” he said. “I couldn’t mistake that beanpole nowheres. We’re safe enough in takin’ a shot at ’em if Rosie’s with ‘em. He’s Pesita’s head guy,” and he drew his revolver and took a single shot in the direction of his former comrades. Bridge followed his example. The oncoming Pesitistas reined in. Billy returned his revolver to its holster and drew his carbine.

  “You ride on ahead,” he said to Mr. Harding and Barbara. “Bridge and I’ll bring up the rear.”

  Then he stopped his pony and turning took deliberate aim at the knot of horsemen to their left. A bandit tumbled from his saddle and the fight was on.

  Fortunately for the Americans Rozales had but a handful of men with him and Rozales himself was never keen for a fight in the open.

  All morning he hovered around the rear of the escaping Americans; but neither side did much damage to the other, and during the afternoon Billy noticed that Rozales merely followed within sight of them, after having dispatched one of his men back in the direction from which they had come.

  “After reinforcements,” commented Byrne.

  All day they rode without meeting with any roving bands of soldiers or bandits, and the explanation was all too sinister to the Americans when coupled with the knowledge that Villa was to attack an American town that night.

  “I wish we could reach the border in time to warn ‘em,” said Billy; “but they ain’t no chance. If we cross before sunup tomorrow morning we’ll be doin’ well.”

  He had scarcely spoken to Barbara Harding all day, for his duties as rear guard had kept him busy; nor had he conversed much with Bridge, though he had often eyed the latter whose gaze wandered many times to the slender, graceful figure of the girl ahead of them.

  Billy was thinking as he never had thought before. It seemed to him a cruel fate that had so shaped their destinies that his best friend loved the girl Billy loved. That Bridge was ignorant of Billy’s infatuation for her the latter well knew. He could not blame Bridge, nor could he, upon the other hand, quite reconcile himself to the more than apparent adoration which marked his friend’s attitude toward Barbara.

  As daylight waned the fugitives realized from the shuffling gait of their mounts, from drooping heads and dull eyes that rest was imperative. They themselves were fagged, too, and when a ranchhouse loomed in front of them they decided to halt for much-needed recuperation.

  Here they found three Americans who were totally unaware of Villa’s contemplated raid across the border, and who when they were informed of it were doubly glad to welcome six extra carbines, for Barbara not only was armed but was eminently qualified to expend ammunition without wasting it.

  Rozales and his small band halted out of range of the ranch; but they went hungry while their quarry fed themselves and their tired mounts.

  The Clark brothers and their cousin, a man by the name of Mason, who were the sole inhabitants of the ranch counseled a long rest — two hours at least, for the border was still ten miles away and speed at the last moment might be their sole means of salvation.

  Billy was for moving on at once before the reinforcements, for which he was sure Rozales had dispatched his messenger, could overtake them. But the others were tired and argued, too, that upon jaded ponies they could not hope to escape and so they waited, until, just as they were ready to continue their flight, flight became impossible.

  Darkness had fallen when the little party commenced to resaddle their ponies and in the midst of their labors there came a rude and disheartening interruption. Billy had kept either the Chinaman or Bridge constantly upon watch toward the direction in which Rozales’ men lolled smoking in the dark, and it was the crack of Bridge’s carbine which awoke the Americans to the fact that though the border lay but a few miles away they were still far from safety.

  As he fired Bridge turned in his saddle and shouted to the others to make for the shelter of the ranchhouse.

  “There are two hundred of them,” he cried. “Run for cover!”

  Billy and the Clark brothers leaped to their saddles and spurred toward the point where Bridge sat pumping lead into the advancing enemy. Mason and Mr. Harding hurried Barbara to the questionable safety of the ranchhouse. The Mexican followed them, and Bridge ordered Sing back to assist in barricading the doors and windows, while he and Billy and the Clark boys held the bandits in momentary check. />
  Falling back slowly and firing constantly as they came the four approached the house while Pesita and his full band advanced cautiously after them. They had almost reached the house when Bridge lunged forward from his saddle. The Clark boys had dismounted and were leading their ponies inside the house. Billy alone noted the wounding of his friend. Without an instant’s hesitation he slipped from his saddle, ran back to where Bridge lay and lifted him in his arms. Bullets were pattering thick about them. A horseman far in advance of his fellows galloped forward with drawn saber to cut down the gringos.

  Billy, casting an occasional glance behind, saw the danger in time to meet it — just, in fact, as the weapon was cutting through the air toward his head. Dropping Bridge and dodging to one side he managed to escape the cut, and before the swordsman could recover Billy had leaped to his pony’s side and seizing the rider about the waist dragged him to the ground.

  “Rozales!” he exclaimed, and struck the man as he had never struck another in all his life, with the full force of his mighty muscles backed by his great weight, with clenched fist full in the face.

  There was a spurting of blood and a splintering of bone, and Captain Guillermo Rozales sank senseless to the ground, his career of crime and rapine ended forever.

  Again Billy lifted Bridge in his arms and this time he succeeded in reaching the ranchhouse without opposition though a little crimson stream trickled down his left arm to drop upon the face of his friend as he deposited Bridge upon the floor of the house.

  All night the Pesitistas circled the lone ranchhouse. All night they poured their volleys into the adobe walls and through the barricaded windows. All night the little band of defenders fought gallantly for their lives; but as day approached the futility of their endeavors was borne in upon them, for of the nine one was dead and three wounded, and the numbers of their assailants seemed undiminished.

  Billy Byrne had been lying all night upon his stomach before a window firing out into the darkness at the dim forms which occasionally showed against the dull, dead background of the moonless desert.

  Presently he leaped to his feet and crossed the floor to the room in which the horses had been placed.

  “Everybody fire toward the rear of the house as fast as they can,” said Billy. “I want a clear space for my getaway.”

  “Where you goin?” asked one of the Clark brothers.

  “North,” replied Billy, “after some of Funston’s men on the border.”

  “But they won’t cross,” said Mr. Harding. “Washington won’t let them.”

  “They gotta,” snapped Billy Byrne, “an’ they will when they know there’s an American girl here with a bunch of Dagos yappin’ around.”

  “You’ll be killed,” said Price Clark. “You can’t never get through.”

  “Leave it to me,” replied Billy. “Just get ready an’ open that back door when I give the word, an’ then shut it again in a hurry when I’ve gone through.”

  He led a horse from the side room, and mounted it.

  “Open her up, boes!” he shouted, and “S’long everybody!”

  Price Clark swung the door open. Billy put spurs to his mount and threw himself forward flat against the animal’s neck. Another moment he was through and a rattling fusillade of shots proclaimed the fact that his bold feat had not gone unnoted by the foe.

  The little Mexican pony shot like a bolt from a crossbow out across the level desert. The rattling of carbines only served to add speed to its frightened feet. Billy sat erect in the saddle, guiding the horse with his left hand and working his revolver methodically with his right.

  At a window behind him Barbara Harding stood breathless and spellbound until he had disappeared into the gloom of the early morning darkness to the north, then she turned with a weary sigh and resumed her place beside the wounded Bridge whose head she bathed with cool water, while he tossed in the delirium of fever.

  The first streaks of daylight were piercing the heavens, the Pesitistas were rallying for a decisive charge, the hopes of the little band of besieged were at low ebb when from the west there sounded the pounding of many hoofs.

  “Villa,” moaned Westcott Clark, hopelessly. “We’re done for now, sure enough. He must be comin’ back from his raid on the border.”

  In the faint light of dawn they saw a column of horsemen deploy suddenly into a long, thin line which galloped forward over the flat earth, coming toward them like a huge, relentless engine of destruction.

  The Pesitistas were watching too. They had ceased firing and sat in their saddles forgetful of their contemplated charge.

  The occupants of the ranchhouse were gathered at the small windows.

  “What’s them?” cried Mason— “them things floating over ‘em.”

  “They’re guidons!” exclaimed Price Clark “ — the guidons of the United States cavalry regiment. See ‘em! See ‘em? God! but don’t they look good?”

  There was a wild whoop from the lungs of the advancing cavalrymen. Pesita’s troops answered it with a scattering volley, and a moment later the Americans were among them in that famous revolver charge which is now history.

  Daylight had come revealing to the watchers in the ranchhouse the figures of the combatants. In the thick of the fight loomed the giant figure of a man in nondescript garb which more closely resembled the apparel of the Pesitistas than it did the uniforms of the American soldiery, yet it was with them he fought. Barbara’s eyes were the first to detect him.

  “There’s Mr. Byrne,” she cried. “It must have been he who brought the troops.”

  “Why, he hasn’t had time to reach the border yet,” remonstrated one of the Clark boys, “much less get back here with help.”

  “There he is though,” said Mr. Harding. “It’s certainly strange. I can’t understand what American troops are doing across the border — especially under the present administration.”

  The Pesitistas held their ground for but a moment then they wheeled and fled; but not before Pesita himself had forced his pony close to that of Billy Byrne.

  “Traitor!” screamed the bandit. “You shall die for this,” and fired point-blank at the American.

  Billy felt a burning sensation in his already wounded left arm; but his right was still good.

  “For poor, bleeding Mexico!” he cried, and put a bullet through Pesita’s forehead.

  Under escort of the men of the Thirteenth Cavalry who had pursued Villa’s raiders into Mexico and upon whom Billy Byrne had stumbled by chance, the little party of fugitives came safely to United States soil, where all but one breathed sighs of heartfelt relief.

  Bridge was given first aid by members of the hospital corps, who assured Billy that his friend would not die. Mr. Harding and Barbara were taken in by the wife of an officer, and it was at the quarters of the latter that Billy Byrne found her alone in the sitting-room.

  The girl looked up as he entered, a sad smile upon her face. She was about to ask him of his wound; but he gave her no opportunity.

  “I’ve come for you,” he said. “I gave you up once when I thought it was better for you to marry a man in your own class. I won’t give you up again. You’re mine — you’re my girl, and I’m goin’ to take you with me. Were goin’ to Galveston as fast as we can, and from there we’re goin’ to Rio. You belonged to me long before Bridge saw you. He can’t have you. Nobody can have you but me, and if anyone tries to keep me from taking you they’ll get killed.”

  He took a step nearer that brought him close to her. She did not shrink — only looked up into his face with wide eyes filled with wonder. He seized her roughly in his arms.

  “You are my girl!” he cried hoarsely. “Kiss me!”

  “Wait!” she said. “First tell me what you meant by saying that Bridge couldn’t have me. I never knew that Bridge wanted me, and I certainly have never wanted Bridge. O Billy! Why didn’t you do this long ago? Months ago in New York I wanted you to take me; but you left me to another man whom I didn’t love. I th
ought you had ceased to care, Billy, and since we have been together here — since that night in the room back of the office — you have made me feel that I was nothing to you. Take me, Billy! Take me anywhere in the world that you go. I love you and I’ll slave for you — anything just to be with you.”

  “Barbara!” cried Billy Byrne, and then his voice was smothered by the pressure of warm, red lips against his own.

  A half hour later Billy stepped out into the street to make his way to the railroad station that he might procure transportation for three to Galveston. Anthony Harding was going with them. He had listened to Barbara’s pleas, and had finally volunteered to back Billy Byrne’s flight from the jurisdiction of the law, or at least to a place where, under a new name, he could start life over again and live it as the son-in-law of old Anthony Harding should live.

  Among the crowd viewing the havoc wrought by the raiders the previous night was a large man with a red face. It happened that he turned suddenly about as Billy Byrne was on the point of passing behind him. Both men started as recognition lighted their faces and he of the red face found himself looking down the barrel of a six-shooter.

  “Put it up, Byrne,” he admonished the other coolly. “I didn’t know you were so good on the draw.”

  “I’m good on the draw all right, Flannagan,” said Billy, “and I ain’t drawin’ for amusement neither. I gotta chance to get away and live straight, and have a little happiness in life, and, Flannagan, the man who tries to crab my game is goin’ to get himself croaked. I’ll never go back to stir alive. See?”

  “Yep,” said Flannagan, “I see; but I ain’t tryin’ to crab your game. I ain’t down here after you this trip. Where you been, anyway, that you don’t know the war’s over? Why Coke Sheehan confessed a month ago that it was him that croaked Schneider, and the governor pardoned you about ten days ago.”

  “You stringin’ me?” asked Billy, a vicious glint in his eyes.