The arm of the range-rider rose and fell once. In his hand was the blue barrel of a revolver. The corrugated butt of the .45 had crashed into the thick matted hair of the Mexican. But it had done its work. Yeager rose quickly. The soldier lay still.
Already Ruth was coming down the swaying ladder. She dropped the last few rounds with a rush, plump into the arms of Steve.
"Let us hurry—hurry," she cried.
It was time to be gone, if not too late. Already men were converging upon them from different sides. Others were bawling orders for soldiers to turn out.
Steve went down almost as quickly as he had risen. His leg had given way unexpectedly.
Before he reached his feet again his revolver was out and doing business.
"Fire at their legs, Frank. All we want to do is to stop them. Ruth, you run ahead, straight for the trees. We'll be with you in a minute," Yeager gave orders quietly.
The girl flashed one look at him, found assurance in his strong, lean face, and obeyed without a word.
Farrar's rifle was already scattering bullets rather wildly into the night. Lead spattered against the adobe wall behind them. But the attackers were checked. Their fire was of a desultory character. There was such a thing as being too impetuous. Who were these men they were assailing? Perhaps they were acting under orders of Pasquale. Better not be too rash. So the mind of the peon soldiers decided.
As soon as Ruth had reached the shelter of the grove her friends moved to join her. They were halfway across the open when the cowpuncher plunged to the ground again.
The camera man turned and ran back to him. "What is it, Steve? Have they hit you?" he asked anxiously.
"Plugged a pill into my laig as I took the elevator down from the second story. Gimme a hand up."
Frank put an arm around his waist as a support and they reached cover just as the leg failed for a third time. Yeager crawled forward a few yards on his knees into the underbrush.
Soft arms slid around his neck and shoulder as someone plumped down beside him.
"You're wounded. You've been shot," Ruth breathed tremulously.
"Yes," assented Yeager. "Hand me your rifle, Frank."
They exchanged weapons. Steve had already made up his mind exactly what was best to do.
"I'm going to stay here awhile and hold them back. You go on with Ruth, Frank. Leave a horse for me. I'll be along later," he explained.
"We're not going away to leave you here," protested Ruth indignantly.
His voice was so matter of fact and his manner so competent that she had already drawn back, half ashamed, from the caressing support to which her feelings had driven her.
He turned on her eyes cool and steely. "You're going to do as I say, girl. You're wasting time for all of us every moment you stay. Take her, Frank."
Farrar spoke in a low voice of troubled doubt. "But what are you going to do, Steve? We can't leave you here."
The bullets of the Mexicans were searching the grove for them. Any moment one might find a mark.
The range-rider made a gesture of angry impatience. "You obey orders fine, don't you?" His face flashed sudden anger. "Get out. I know my plans, don't I? Pull your freight. Vamos!"
"And you'll be along later, will you?"
"Of course I will. I've got it all arranged. Hurry, or it will be too late."
Ruth half guessed his purpose. She began to sob, but let herself be hurried away by Farrar.
"He's going to stay there. He's not coming at all," she wailed as she ran.
"Sho! Of course he's coming. You know Steve, don't you? He's always got something good up his sleeve."
But though her friend reassured her, he could not still his own fears. Something in him cried out against the desertion of a wounded ally, one who had risked his life to save them all. Still, there was the girl to be considered. If Yeager wanted to give his life for hers he had the right. Many a good man of the Southwest would have done what Steve was doing, given the same circumstances. It was up to him, Farrar, to back his friend's play and see it through.
Yeager crawled on his hands and knees into a mesquite thicket from which he could command a view of the open space back of Pasquale's house. He broke carefully half a dozen twigs that interfered with the free play of his rifle. Then he placed his revolver beside him ready for action. After which he waited, tense and watchful.
Mexicans were swarming about the back of the house. One climbed the rope ladder, looked in the window, and explained with much gesturing to those below that the room was empty. Random shots were thrown toward the river and into the grove. But nobody headed the pursuit. They were waiting for a leader.
Then Pasquale burst furiously into sight around the house. Culvera, Ochampa, and Holcomb followed him. The general flung himself into an excited group, tossing to right and left those who were in his way. He snapped out questions, gave orders, and stamped over the ground like a madman.
Called by Culvera, he strode forward to one of the drugged guards. In an impotent fury he shook the man, trying to waken him from his sleep; then, raging at his failure, he flung the helpless body against the wall and turned on his heel.
Order began to evolve out of the mob. Pasquale himself organized the pursuit. He spread the line out so that as it advanced it would sweep the whole space to the river. There was no longer any wild firing. Men brought from the stables eight or ten horses for the officers.
As the line moved forward, Yeager thought it time to let the enemy know where he was. He drew a bead on the general, moved his rifle slightly to the left, and fired. Pasquale drew his sword and waved it.
"Take the girl alive. Shoot down the traitor dogs with her," he cried savagely. "One hundred pesos to the man who kills either of them or captures her."
Steve answered this by firing twice, once with his revolver and almost immediately afterward with his rifle. Ochampa sat down suddenly. He had been hit in the leg.
* * *
CHAPTER XXIV
THE PRISONER
Pasquale changed his tactics. Having located his prey with fair accuracy, he spread his men so as to converge upon the fugitives as the spokes of a wheel do toward the hub. His instructions were that the men were not to fire unless they were within close enough range to be sure not to hit the girl.
His courage had been tested often enough to be beyond doubt, so Gabriel contented himself with waiting behind his horse for the captives to be brought to him. He had no intention of being killed in a skirmish of this kind as long as he had peons to send forward in his place.
"Bet five dollars gold I have them inside of a quarter of an hour, captain," the Mexican general said, peering across his saddle toward the grove.
"Yes," assented Major Ochampa in a depressed voice. He objected to having camp vagrants take liberties with his leg. "Hope you make an example of them, general."
Pasquale turned, his eyes like cold lights on a frosty night. "They'll pray for death a hundred times before it comes to them," he promised brutally. Then, with quick surprise, "Where's Holcomb?"
"He went forward with the men."
"Just like him," replied Gabriel, shrugging his shoulders. "The madman must always be in the thick of it. It's the Gringo way."
From his mesquite thicket Yeager kept up as rapid a fire as possible, using rifle and revolver alternately so as to deceive the enemy into believing the whole party was there. His object was merely to gain time for his escaping friends. Ochampa had been wounded as an object lesson, but he did not intend to kill any of those who were surrounding him. If there had been a dozen of them he would have fought it out to a finish, but with one against a thousand he felt it would be useless murder to kill.
Steve fired into the air, knowing that would do just as well to delay the attackers. Each time he fired his revolver he called aloud softly to himself the number of the shot. It was essential to his plan that there should be one bullet left the moment before they took him.
He could hear them stumbling towa
rd him through the brush and could make out the dark figures as they crawled forward.
"Four," he counted as he fired his revolver into the air and cut off a twig.
His rifle sang out twice. He waited, listening. Bushes crackled a few yards behind him. Snatching up his revolver, he turned.
"Don't fire, Steve," said a low voice in perfectly good English.
Holcomb came out of the thicket toward him.
"Hello, captain. Nice large warm evening. You out taking the air?" asked the cowpuncher.
"Did the rest get away?"
"Hope so. I had rotten luck. One of the guards plugged me in the leg, so I thought I'd kinder keep the Legion busy while our friends make their getaway."
"Can't you run?"
"Can't even walk." Yeager raised the revolver and fired. "Five. One left now."
His eye met that of the captain. Each of them understood perfectly.
"That first shot of yours just missed Pasquale. Pity you didn't shoot straighter."
"I had a dead beat on the old scamp, but I didn't want him. If Ruth gets away, that's all I ask. He's all kinds of a wolf, but Mexico needs him, I reckon."
"You're right about that, Steve. It wouldn't have done you any good to lay him out. Here they come."
A man ploughed through the brush toward them. Another appeared to the left. The face of a third peered around the trunk of an adjacent cottonwood. Of a sudden the grove seemed alive with them.
Raising his gun, Steve nodded farewell to his friend.
A moment before Holcomb had had no intention of interfering, but an impulse that was almost an inspiration gave springs to his muscles. He leaped.
The fling of his arm sent the shot flying wildly into the night. Yeager turned on him furiously as he picked himself up to his knees.
"What did you do that for?"
"I don't know—had no intention of it a moment before. Maybe I've done you a bad turn, Steve. It came over me as a hunch that you were coming out of this all right."
"The devil it did. Gimme your gun. Quick!"
It was too late. The Mexicans were closing with him. They flung him down and pegged him to the ground with their weight. He made no attempt to struggle.
"Get off of him. He's my prisoner," roared Holcomb, flinging one of the Mexicans back.
They poured on him a flood of protesting Spanish. They had taken him while he was still at large. The reward was theirs.
"Confound the reward. You may have it, but the man belongs to me. Get up. He's wounded. Two of you will have to carry him."
"But if he tries to escape, señor—"
"Don't be a fool," snapped Holcomb curtly.
The captain was troubled in his heart. Had he saved this fine young fellow to be the plaything of old Pasquale's vengeance? He knew well enough what would happen to the Arizonian if Ruth escaped. But as long as there was life there was a chance. Something might turn up yet to save him.
When Pasquale found that only an insignificant peon Pedro Cabenza had been taken in his dragnet, he exploded with fury. He ordered the man shot against the nearest wall at once.
Culvera turned the prisoner so that the moon fell full upon his face. He looked searchingly at him. Yeager knew that he was discovered. He spoke in English.
"Good-evening, Colonel Culvera. You've guessed right, but you've guessed it a little too late."
"What is this? Who is this man?" demanded Pasquale harshly.
"The man Yeager, who escaped from you two weeks since," explained Ramon. "He has been in camp with us over a week arranging this girl's escape."
The old general let out a bellow of rage. He strode forward to make sure for himself. Roughly he seized his prisoner by the hair of the head and twisted the face toward him.
"Sorry I had to leave you so abruptly last time, general. Did you have a pleasant night?" taunted Yeager.
Gabriel choked. He was beyond words.
"I see you haven't been able to get anybody else to assassinate your friend Culvera yet," he said pleasantly.
The American had given up hope of life. He was trying to spur Pasquale into such an uncontrollable anger that his death would be a swift and easy one.
"Tie him hand and foot. Let a dozen men armed with rifles stay in the room with him till I return. Ochampa, I hold you responsible. If he escapes—"
"He won't escape," answered the major. "I'll see to that myself."
"See that you do." Pasquale swung to the saddle and looked around. "Ramon, you're not a fool. Where shall we look for this girl and those with her?" he demanded, scowling.
"They must have horses to escape, general. Except in the stable here, which is guarded heavily, the nearest are across the river in the direction they must be moving."
"Of course. Juan, have the remuda driven up and let every man saddle his horse. We'll comb these hills if we must. Maldito! She shan't escape me."
He galloped off at the head of his troop, taking the short cut to the pasture.
The prisoner was dragged into the house where Ochampa was staying. A doctor presently arrived and took care of the wounded leg of the major. After he had finished dressing it, he turned to Yeager.
"No use bothering with mine. I'll have worse wounds soon," the man from Arizona told him calmly.
The little doctor smiled genially because his heart was good. "Quien sabe, señor? Yet it is my duty," he reminded his patient gently.
"Old Gabriel might not say so," demurred Steve.
Yet he conceded the point and let the surgeon minister to him. There was no anaesthetic. The patient had to set his teeth and bear the pain while the bullet was removed and the wound washed and dressed. Little beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead. The lean muscles of his cheeks stood out like ropes. But no sound escaped his lips.
"You are a brave man," said the doctor when he had finished. "I wish you good fortune, sir."
A faint smile rested in the eyes of the cowpuncher. "I'm right likely to have it, don't you think?" he asked ironically.
Whether Ochampa suspected Holcomb of being in collusion with his countryman or was merely taking no chances, the prisoner had no way of telling. But the major refused flatly to let the artillery officer into the room.
"Tell him he can see the man after the general returns—if the general wants him to see him," he told the messenger.
They could hear the voice of Holcomb, angry and insistent, protesting against such treatment. But a file of soldiers stood between him and the room. He had to retire defeated.
Slate-colored dawn rolled up without the return of Pasquale. With every passing hour Steve gathered hope. It was certain that Ruth and her friends had escaped through the lines or they must have been brought back long ago. And if they once reached the hills and became lost among them, they would surely be safe from pursuit.
The prisoner was drinking a cup of coffee the doctor had brought him when the sound of horses' hoofs came to him through the open window.
The voice of Pasquale rang out, and at the sound of it Steve's heart grew chill. For there was in the timbre of it a brutal, jovial triumph.
"Take these horses, boys,—feed them, water them. Let the girl go to her room, Ramon, but see that she is watched every minute. Garcia, attend to the Gringos."
He strode into the room where Yeager was detained. His greedy little eyes sparkled; his face exuded malice and self-conceit.
"Ho, ho, amigo! Who laughs now?" he jeered. "I found your friends—stumbled on them in a pocket of the hills while we were returning. They had lost their way, of course, since Señor Yeager was unfortunately not able to go along. So I brought them home to breakfast. Was I not kind?"
He threw back his head and laughed. Steve said nothing. His heart was sick. He had thrown the dice for his great chance and lost.
"First, to breakfast," repeated the Mexican. "And afterward—the young lady shall have love. Por Dios, you shall be at the wedding," decided Pasquale on malicious impulse, hammering on the table with hi
s great fist.
"If I had only had the sense to pull the trigger last night when I had you at my mercy," Yeager commented aloud.
"Yes, you and all her friends—you shall all be there to wish her joy—even Holcomb, who wearies me with his protests. Maldito! Is Gabriel Pasquale not good enough for a kitchen wench from Arizona?"
"It's an outrage beyond belief."
"And afterward—while the little chatita makes love to Gabriel—her friend Steve whom she loves will suffer his punishment with what fortitude he can."
"And her other friends?"
"Behold, it is a great day, señor. Not so? If the chatita, linda de mi alma (pugnosed one, pretty creature of my love), asks for their freedom, she shall have it. I, Gabriel, will send them home under safe escort. Am I not generous? A kind lover? Not so?"
Steve turned his head away and looked through the window at the sun rising behind the distant hills. There was nothing to be said.
* * *
CHAPTER XXV
THE TEXAN TAKES A LONG JOURNEY
Pasquale was as good as his word. He arranged that Yeager should see the function from first to last. The wounded man, his hands tied behind his back, heavily guarded, was in the front row of the crowd which lined the short walk between the headquarters of the general and the little adobe church. The petty officer in command told him that after the bridal procession had passed he was to be taken into the balcony of the church for the ceremony.
"And afterward, while Gabriel makes love to the muchacha, the Gringo Yeager will learn what it means to displease the Liberator," promised the brown man with a twinkle of cruel little eyes.
Steve gave no sign that he heard. He understood perfectly that the ingenuity of Pasquale would make the day one long succession of tortures for him. It was up to him to mask his face and manner with the stoicism of an Apache.
Steve Yeager Page 16
