by Zane Grey
It was then Gale slowed up. For the space of perhaps sixty seconds he had been moving with startling velocity. He peered cautiously out into the plaza. The paths, the benches, the shady places under the trees contained no skulking men. He ran out, keeping to the shade, and did not go into the path till he was halfway through the plaza. Under a street lamp at the far end of the path he thought he saw two dark figures. He ran faster, and soon reached the street. The uproar back in the hotel began to diminish, or else he was getting out of hearing. The few people he saw close at hand were all coming his way, and only the foremost showed any excitement. Gale walked swiftly, peering ahead for two figures. Presently he saw them—one tall, wearing a cape; the other slight, mantled. Gale drew a sharp breath of relief. Thorne and Mercedes were not far ahead.
From time to time Thorne looked back. He strode swiftly, almost carrying Mercedes, who clung closely to him. She, too, looked back. Once Gale saw her white face flash in the light of a street lamp. He began to overhaul them; and soon when the last lamp had been passed and the street was dark, he ventured a whistle. Thorne heard it, for he turned, whistled a low reply, and went on. Not for some distance beyond, where the street ended in open country, did they halt to wait. The desert began here. Gale felt the soft sand under his feet and saw the grotesque forms of cactus. Then he came up with the fugitives.
“Dick! Are you—all right?” panted Thorne, grasping Gale.
“I’m—out of breath—but—OK,” replied Gale.
“Good! Good!” choked Thorne. “I was scared—helpless.… Dick, it worked splendidly. We had no trouble. What on earth did you do?”
“I made the row, all right,” said Dick.
“Good Heavens! It was like a row I once heard made by a mob. But the shots, Dick—were they at you? They paralyzed me. Then the yells. What happened? Those guards of Rojas ran round in front at the first shot. Tell me what happened.”
“While I was rushing Rojas a couple of cowboys shot out the lamplights. A Mexican who pulled a knife on me got hurt, I guess. Then I think there was some shooting from the rebels after the room was dark.”
“Rushing Rojas?” queried Thorne, leaning close to Dick. His voice was thrilling, exultant, deep with a joy that yet needed confirmation. “What did you do to him?”
“I handed him one off side, tackled, then tried a forward pass,” replied Dick, lightly speaking the football vernacular so familiar to Thorne.
Thorne leaned closer, his fine face showing fierce and corded in the starlight. “Tell me straight,” he demanded, in thick voice.
Gale then divined something of the suffering Thorne had undergone—something of the hot, wild, vengeful passion of a lover who must have brutal truth.
It stilled Dick’s lighter mood, and he was about to reply when Mercedes pressed close to him, touched his hands, and looked up into his face with wonderful eyes. He thought he would not soon forget their beauty—the shadow of pain that had been, the hope dawning so fugitively.
“Dear lady,” said Gale, with voice not wholly steady. “Rojas himself will hound you no more tonight, nor for many nights.”
She seemed to shake, to thrill, to rise with the intelligence. She pressed his hand close over her heaving breast. Gale felt the quick throb of her heart.
“Señor! Señor Dick!” she cried. Then her voice failed. But her hands flew up; quick as a flash she raised her face—kissed him. Then she turned and with a sob fell into Thorne’s arms.
There ensued a silence broken only by Mercedes’s sobbing. Gale walked some paces away. If he were not stunned, he certainly was agitated. The strange, sweet fire of that girl’s lips remained with him. On the spur of the moment he imagined he had a jealousy of Thorne. But presently this passed. It was only that he had been deeply moved—stirred to the depths during the last hour—had become conscious of the awakening of a spirit. What remained with him now was the splendid glow of gladness that he had been of service to Thorne. And by the intensity of Mercedes’s abandon of relief and gratitude he measured her agony of terror and the fate he had spared her.
“Dick, Dick, come here!” called Thorne, softly. “Let’s pull ourselves together now. We’ve got a problem yet. What to do? Where to go? How to get anyplace? We don’t dare risk the station—the corrals where Mexicans hire out horses. We’re on good old U.S. ground this minute, but we’re not out of danger.”
As he paused, evidently hoping for a suggestion from Gale, the silence was broken by the clear, ringing peal of a bugle. Thorne gave a violent start. Then he bent over, listening. The beautiful notes of the bugle floated out of the darkness, clearer, sharper, faster.
“It’s a call, Dick! It’s a call!” he cried.
Gale had no answer to make. Mercedes stood as if stricken. The bugle call ended. From a distance another faintly pealed. There were other sounds too remote to recognize. Then scattering shots rattled out.
“Dick, the rebels are fighting somebody,” burst out Thorne, excitedly. “The little federal garrison still holds its stand. Perhaps it is attacked again. Anyway, there’s something doing over the line. Maybe the crazy Greasers are firing on our camp. We’ve feared it—in the dark.… And here I am, away without leave—practically a deserter!”
“Go back! Go back, before you’re too late!” cried Mercedes.
“Better make tracks, Thorne,” added Gale. “It can’t help our predicament for you to be arrested. I’ll take care of Mercedes.”
“No, no, no,” replied Thorne. “I can get away—avoid arrest.”
“That’d be all right for the immediate present. But it’s not best for the future. George, a deserter is a deserter!… Better hurry. Leave the girl to me till to-morrow.”
Mercedes embraced her lover, begged him to go. Thorne wavered.
“Dick, I’m up against it,” he said. “You’re right. If only I can run back in time. But, oh, I hate to leave her! Old fellow, you’ve saved her! I already owe you everlasting gratitude. Keep out of Casita, Dick. The U.S. side might be safe, but I’m afraid to trust it at night. Go out in the desert, up in the mountains, in some safe place. Then come to me in camp. We’ll plan. I’ll have to confide in Colonel Weede. Maybe he’ll help us. Hide her from the rebels—that’s all.”
He wrung Dick’s hand, clasped Mercedes tightly in his arms, kissed her, and murmured low over her, then released her to rush off into the darkness. He disappeared in the gloom. The sound of his dull footfalls gradually died away.
For a moment the desert silence oppressed Gale. He was unaccustomed to such strange stillness. There was a low stir of sand, a rustle of stiff leaves in the wind. How white the stars burned! Then a coyote barked, to be bayed by a dog. Gale realized that he was between the edge of an unknown desert and the edge of a hostile town. He had to choose the desert, because, though he had no doubt that in Casita there were many Americans who might befriend him, he could not chance the risks of seeking them at night.
He felt a slight touch on his arm, felt it move down, felt Mercedes slip a trembling cold little hand into his. Dick looked at her. She seemed a white-faced girl now, with staring, frightened black eyes that flashed up at him. If the loneliness, the silence, the desert, the unknown dangers of the night affected him, what must they be to this hunted, driven girl? Gale’s heart swelled. He was alone with her. He had no weapon, no money, no food, no drink, no covering, nothing except his two hands. He had absolutely no knowledge of the desert, of the direction or whereabouts of the boundary line between the republics; he did not know where to find the railroad, or any road or trail, or whether or not there were towns near or far. It was a critical, desperate situation. He thought first of the girl, and groaned in spirit, prayed that it would be given him to save her. When he remembered himself it was with the stunning consciousness that he could conceive of no situation which he would have exchanged for this one—where fortune had set him a perilous task of loyalty to a friend, to a helpless girl.
“Señor, señor!” suddenly whispered Mercedes,
clinging to him. “Listen! I hear horses coming!”
CHAPTER 3
A FLIGHT INTO THE DESERT
Uneasy and startled, Gale listened and, hearing nothing, wondered if Mercedes’s fears had not worked upon her imagination. He felt a trembling seize her, and he held her hands tightly.
“You were mistaken, I guess,” he whispered.
“No, no, señor.”
Dick turned his ear to the soft wind. Presently he heard, or imagined he heard, low beats. Like the first faint, far-off beats of a drumming grouse, they recalled to him the Illinois forests of his boyhood. In a moment he was certain the sounds were the padlike steps of hoofs in yielding sand. The regular tramp was not that of grazing horses.
On the instant, made cautious and stealthy by alarm, Gale drew Mercedes deeper into the gloom of the shrubbery. Sharp pricks from thorns warned him that he was pressing into a cactus growth, and he protected Mercedes as best he could. She was shaking as one with a severe chill. She breathed with little hurried pants and leaned upon him almost in collapse. Gale ground his teeth in helpless rage at the girl’s fate. If she had not been beautiful she might still have been free and happy in her home. What a strange world to live in—how unfair was fate!
The sounds of hoofbeats grew louder. Gale made out a dark moving mass against a background of dull gray. There was a line of horses. He could not discern whether or not all the horses carried riders. The murmur of a voice struck his ear—then a low laugh. It made him tingle, for it sounded American. Eagerly he listened. There was an interval when only the hoofbeats could be heard.
“It shore was, Laddy, it shore was,” came a voice out of the darkness. “Rough house! Laddy, since wire fences drove us out of Texas we ain’t seen the like of that. An’ we never had such a call.”
“Call? It was a burnin’ roast,” replied another voice. “I felt low down. He vamoosed some sudden, an’ I hope he an’ his friends shook the dust of Casita. That’s a rotten town, Jim.”
Gale jumped up in joy. What luck! The speakers were none other than the two cowboys whom he had accosted in the Mexican hotel.
“Hold on, fellows,” he called out, and strode into the road.
The horses snorted and stamped. Then followed swift rustling sounds—a clinking of spurs, then silence. The figures loomed clearer in the gloom. Gale saw five or six horses, two with riders, and one other, at least, carrying a pack. When Gale got within fifteen feet of the group the foremost horseman said:
“I reckon that’s close enough, stranger.”
Something in the cowboy’s hand glinted darkly bright in the starlight.
“You’d recognize me, if it wasn’t so dark,” replied Gale, halting. “I spoke to you a little while ago—in the saloon back there.”
“Come over an’ let’s see you,” said the cowboy, curtly.
Gale advanced till he was close to the horse. The cowboy leaned over the saddle and peered into Gale’s face. Then, without a word, he sheathed the gun and held out his hand. Gale met a grip of steel that warmed his blood. The other cowboy got off his nervous, spirited horse and threw the bridle. He, too, peered closely into Gale’s face.
“My name’s Ladd,” he said. “Reckon I’m some glad to meet you again.”
Gale felt another grip as hard and strong as the other had been. He realized he had found friends who belonged to a class of men whom he had despaired of ever knowing.
“Gale—Dick Gale is my name,” he began, swiftly. “I dropped into Casita tonight hardly knowing where I was. A boy took me to that hotel. There I met an old friend whom I had not seen for years. He belongs to the cavalry stationed here. He had befriended a Spanish girl—fallen in love with her. Rojas had killed this girl’s father—tried to abduct her … You know what took place at the hotel. Gentlemen, if it’s ever possible, I’ll show you how I appreciate what you did for me there. I got away, found my friend with the girl. We hurried out here beyond the edge of the town. Then Thorne had to make a break for camp. We heard bugle calls, shots, and he was away without leave. That left the girl with me. I don’t know what to do. Thorne swears Casita is no place for Mercedes at night.”
“The girl ain’t no peon, no common Greaser?” interrupted Ladd.
“No. Her name is Castañeda. She belongs to an old Spanish family, once rich and influential.”
“Reckoned as much,” replied the cowboy. “There’s more than Rojas’s wantin’ to kidnap a pretty girl. Shore he does that every day or so. Must be somethin’ political or feelin’ against class. Well, Casita ain’t no place for your friend’s girl at night or day, or any time. Shore, there’s Americans who’d take her in an’ fight for her, if necessary. But it ain’t wise to risk that. Lash, what do you say?”
“It’s been gettin’ hotter round this Greaser corral for some weeks,” replied the other cowboy. “If that two-bit of a garrison surrenders, there’s no tellin’ what’ll happen. Orozco is headin’ west from Agua Prieta with his guerrillas. Campo is burnin’ bridges an’ tearin’ up the railroad south of Nogales. Then there’s all these bandits callin’ themselves revolutionists just for an excuse to steal, burn, kill, an’ ride off with women. It’s plain facts, Laddy, an’ bein’ across the U.S. line a few inches or so don’t make no hell of a difference. My advice is, don’t let Miss Castañeda ever set foot in Casita again.”
“Looks like you’ve shore spoke sense,” said Ladd. “I reckon, Gale, you an’ the girl ought to come with us. Casita shore would be a little warm for us to-morrow. We didn’t kill anybody, but I shot a Greaser’s arm off, an’ Lash strained friendly relations by destroyin’ property. We know people who’ll take care of the señorita till your friend can come for her.”
Dick warmly spoke his gratefulness, and, inexpressibly relieved and happy for Mercedes, he went toward the clump of cactus where he had left her. She stood erect, waiting, and, dark as it was, he could tell she had lost the terror that had so shaken her.
“Señor Gale, you are my good angel,” she said, tremulously.
“I’ve been lucky to fall in with these men, and I’m glad with all my heart,” he replied. “Come.”
He led her into the road up to the cowboys, who now stood bareheaded in the starlight. They seemed shy, and Lash was silent while Ladd made embarrassed, unintelligible reply to Mercedes’s thanks.
There were five horses—two saddled, two packed and the remaining one carried only a blanket. Ladd shortened the stirrups on his mount, and helped Mercedes up into the saddle. From the way she settled herself and took the few restive prances of the mettlesome horse Gale judged that she could ride. Lash urged Gale to take his horse. But this Gale refused to do.
“I’ll walk,” he said. “I’m used to walking. I know cowboys are not.”
They tried again to persuade him, without avail. Then Ladd started off, riding bareback. Mercedes fell in behind, with Gale walking beside her. The two pack animals came next, and Lash brought up the rear.
Once started with protection assured for the girl and a real objective point in view, Gale relaxed from the tense strain he had been laboring under. How glad he would have been to acquaint Thorne with their good fortune! Later, of course, there would be some way to get word to the cavalryman. But till then what torments his friend would suffer!
It seemed to Dick that a very long time had elapsed since he stepped off the train; and one by one he went over every detail of incident which had occurred between that arrival and the present moment. Strange as the facts were, he had no doubts. He realized that before that night he had never known the deeps of wrath undisturbed in him; had never conceived even a passing idea that it was possible for him to try to kill a man. His right hand was swollen stiff, so sore that he could scarcely close it. His knuckles were bruised and bleeding, and ached with a sharp pain. Considering the thickness of his heavy glove, Gale was of the opinion that so to bruise his hand he must have struck Rojas a powerful blow. He remembered that for him to give or take a blow had been nothing. This blow t
o Rojas, however, had been a different matter. The hot wrath which had been his motive was not puzzling; but the effect on him after he had cooled off, a subtle difference, something puzzled and eluded him. The more it baffled him the more he pondered. All those wandering months of his had been filled with dissatisfaction, yet he had been too apathetic to understand himself. So he had not been much of a person to try. Perhaps it had not been the blow to Rojas any more than other things that had wrought some change in him.
His meeting with Thorne; the wonderful black eyes of a Spanish girl; her appeal to him; the hate inspired by Rojas, and the rush, the blow, the action; sight of Thorne and Mercedes hurrying safely away; the girl’s hands pressing his to her heaving breast; the sweet fire of her kiss; the fact of her being alone with him, dependent upon him—all these things Gale turned over and over in his mind, only to fail of any definite conclusion as to which had affected him so remarkably, or to tell what had really happened to him.
Had he fallen in love with Thorne’s sweetheart? The idea came in a flash. Was he, all in an instant, and by one of those incomprehensible reversals of character, jealous of his friend? Dick was almost afraid to look up at Mercedes. Still he forced himself to do so, and as it chanced Mercedes was looking down at him. Somehow the light was better, and he clearly saw her white face, her black and starry eyes, her perfect mouth. With a quick, graceful impulsiveness she put her hand upon his shoulder. Like her appearance, the action was new, strange, striking to Gale; but it brought home suddenly to him the nature of gratitude and affection in a girl of her blood. It was sweet and sisterly. He knew then that he had not fallen in love with her. The feeling that was akin to jealousy seemed to be of the beautiful something for which Mercedes stood in Thorne’s life. Gale then grasped the bewildering possibilities, the infinite wonder of what a girl could mean to a man.