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 pried 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."
"Has Ruth been here ever since she came down with Harrison that time he lied to her about you being wo
unded?" asked Threewit. "We were told you butted in and took her home."
"I did. Harrison went to Los Robles later and brought her by force. He was looking for me and bumped into her by chance. His idea was to marry her as soon as they reached camp. But Pasquale balked. He took a fancy to Ruth himself."
While Yeager talked his fingers were busy every moment. From long usage he was expert at roping and tying. Many a time he had thrown the diamond hitch while packing on mountain trails. His skill served him well now. He trussed the guards as if they had been packs for the saddle, binding them hand and feet so that they could not move.
"We heard that an American had been killed in camp to-day. We've been worried for fear it might have been you, Steve," said the camera man.
"It was Harrison. He tried to sell Pasquale out to Farrugia and the old fox got his letter. Pasquale accused him of his treachery and had him assassinated on the spot. Better pull that sombrero lower over your face, Threewit. And keep your hands out of the light as much as you can. They're too white for this section of the country."
"What if some one talks to me? I can't put over their lingo."
"Just grunt. I'll do what talking is necessary. All right. We'll make tracks, boys."
They stepped outside. Yeager relocked the door and drove the staple back into the wood with the end of his rifle by steady pressure and not by blows.
Steve led them through the bear grass into the pasture and across it to the river-bank. Here, under the heavy shadows of the overhanging cottonwoods, he outlined his plans.
Threewit spoke aloud his fears. "But, good Lord! what chance have we got? It's a cinch we can't put four more guards out of business without being seen. And if we are caught—" His voice failed him.
The cowpuncher looked at him, and then at Farrar. The camera man was pale, but his eyes met those of his friend steadily. Steve judged he would do to tie to, that his nerve would pull him through. But the director was plainly shaken with fears. He was not a coward, but the privations and anxieties of the past ten days had got on his nerves. His lips twitched and his fat hand trembled. His life had fallen in too soft and easy places for this sort of thing.
The cowboy reassured him gently, even as he rearranged his plans on the spot. "We're going to pull it off, but as you say there is a chance we won't make it. I'm going to leave you in the corral with the horses. If Frank and I should slip up and get caught you'll still have a chance to get away."
"I'm going through with it just the same as you boys," insisted the director shakily.
"You're going to do as I say, Threewit. I'm elected boss of this rodeo. One of us has got to stay by the horses to make sure they're ready when we need 'em. That's going to be you. You're to sit right steady on the job till we come. If you hear shooting,—and if we don't show up in a reasonable time after that,—light out and save your hide. Keep that star—see, the bright one close down to the horizon—keep it right in front of you all night. By daybreak you ought to be across the line."
"I'm not going to ride away and leave you boys and Ruth here. What do you take me for?" demanded Threewit huskily.
Steve put a hand on the shoulder of the little man. "You're all right, Billie," he said, with the affectionate smile that men as well as women loved. "We all know you'll do to take along any time when we need a man that's on the level. You wait there at the corral. If we show up, good. If we don't—well, we'll be beyond help. There'll be nothing left for you to do but burn the wind."
Frank swallowed hard. "What Steve says goes with me, Billie."
"Good." Yeager turned briskly to the business in hand. "We might as well be on our way, boys. There's no hurry, because I want Pasquale and Culvera to get settled at their game. But I reckon we'll drift along easy like."
They waded the river, which at its deepest did not reach to their calves, and scrambled up the opposite bank to a bench of shale. Yeager, after a short search, found hidden under the foliage of a prickly pear the rope he had left there some hours earlier. They were in a large fenced pasture where were kept the horses of the officers. At one end could be seen dimly the outline of a little corral.
"You boys head across that way and wait for me. The remuda is at the other end of the pasture under the care of a boy," explained the cowpuncher.
"Hadn't I better go along with you in case of trouble?" asked Farrar.
"There isn't going to be any trouble. I'm getting the horses for Pasquale. See?"
After the others had left him, Steve lit a cigarette and sauntered to the far end of the field. Presently he gave a call that brought an answer. The horses were grazing in a loose herd that covered perhaps a third of an acre. From behind them emerged a youth on horseback.
"I want four horses in a hurry," announced the range-rider.
"What for?"
"Never mind what for, compadre. I didn't ask old Gabriel what for when he sent me," grumbled the messenger.
"Why didn't you say for Pasquale?" The young man was preparing his rope swiftly and efficiently. "Did the general say what horses?"
"He named the roan with the white stockings and the white-nosed buckskin."
"Then he's going to travel fast and far. Why, in the devil's name, since he is going to be married in the morning?"
"Why does the general always do what isn't expected? The saints know. I don't," growled Steve.
Both of them were expert ropers. In five minutes the American was swallowed in the darkness. He was astride the bare back of the buckskin and was leading the other ponies. As soon as he knew he was safely out of sight and hearing, he deflected toward the corral.
His friends were waiting for him anxiously. Steve dropped lightly to the ground.
"Hold the horses a minute, Frank," he said.
Striding to a feed-stall filled with alfalfa, he tossed the hay aside and dragged to the light a saddle. Presently he uncovered a second, a third, and a fourth.
"Brought them here last night—stole them from the storehouse," he explained casually.
"You didn't overlook any bets—thought of everything, even to saddle-blankets and water-bags already full," contributed Farrar, digging up these supplies from the alfalfa.
Steve cinched the saddles himself, though Farrar was a fair horseman. If it came to a pinch the turning of a saddle might spoil everything, and so far as he could the range-rider was forestalling any accidents that might be due to carelessness.
"How long am I to wait for you?" asked Threewit.
"We'd ought to be back inside of an hour and a half—if luck's with us. But we may be delayed by some one hanging around. Give us two hours or even two and a half—unless hell begins to pop." Steve looked at his watch in the moonlight. "Say till twelve o'clock. Of course, when you go, you'll leave the other horses here on the chance that we come later. You'd better ride that round-bellied bay."
"Am I to follow the star right up the hill?"
"No. Better take the draw. The sentinels will be on the hill. Likely they'll see you and shoot at you. But don't stop, even if they're close. Keep a-going. They can't hit a barn door."
"Neither can I," lamented the director.
"Then you'll all be safe." Yeager turned to Farrar. "Come on, Frank."
The two crossed the pasture to the river and waded through the shallow stream to the other side. They remained in the shadows of the bank, following the bend of the river as it circled the village. Through the cottonwoods they crept toward the rear of the two-story house where Pasquale lived and Ruth was held prisoner.
From a sandy spot at the foot of a cotton wood tree Yeager dug a rope ladder.
"Been making it while I was night-herding the remuda," he told Farrar in answer to a surprised question.
"Beats me you didn't make an auto for us to get away in," answered his admiring friend with a grin.
"Wait here," whispered Steve. "I'm going forward to look the ground over. Keep your eyes open in case I give a signal."
The range-rider snaked his way toward th
e house, moving so slowly and noiselessly that Farrar lost sight of him entirely and began to wonder where he had gone. It must have been nearly twenty minutes later that he caught a glimpse of him without his rifle. Yeager was engaged in confidential talk with a guard in uniform. Frank saw the bottle pass from his friend to the Mexican, who took a pull at it. A second guard joined the two presently. He also took a drink.
The three disappeared together into the shadowy darkness of the house wall. Farrar was wondering what had happened when a single figure emerged into the moonlight and made a signal for him to come forward.
Yeager did not wait for him, but climbed up the post of the back porch as he had done once before. The camera man was on hand by the time Steve reached the roof. He looked up silently while his friend reached across and rapped on the window of a lighted room. The sash was raised very gently.
Ruth leaned out. "Is it you, Steve?" Her voice was tremulous and tearful. It was a safe guess she had been sobbing her misery into a pillow.
"Yes."
He caught hold of the edge of the window and swung across, working himself up and in by sheer power of muscle. Rapidly he fastened the end of the rope ladder to the head of the bed, which he first half lifted and half dragged to the window. The rest of the ladder he threw out.
"Ready, Ruth?" he asked, turning to her.
She nodded. He was offering his arm to help her through the window when a frightened call came from below.
"Steve!"
He looked down. A Mexican trooper, one of those set to guard the front of the house, was approaching. A glance was enough to show that he knew something to be wrong. His startled eyes passed from Farrar to the rope ladder. They followed it from the ground to the window. He stopped, almost under the window. The camera man, taken aback, did not know what to do. Was he to run the risk of a shot? Even while he hesitated the man in uniform reached for a revolver.
Yeager knew what to do, and he did it promptly. Sweeping Ruth back from the window, he clambered through himself and poised his body for the leap. The sentry looked up again, saw what was about to happen, and let out a startled scream at the same instant that he flung up an arm and fired. Steve felt a sharp sting in his leg as he descended through the air. He landed astride on the shoulders of the Mexican. The man went to earth, hammered down so hard that the breath was driven from his body.
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