"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 the 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.

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 toward 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, senor—"

"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, senor? 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 Senor 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 his 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, senor. 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.

At a little distance he saw Farrar and Threewit, both of them very anxious and pale. He would have called a greeting to them except that he was afraid it might prejudice their chances.

Captain Holcomb passed in front of him and stopped.

"Mornin', Steve," he said.

"Mornin', captain." The haggard eyes of the cowpuncher asked a question before his lips framed it. "Can't you do anything for the little girl? Has this hellish thing got to go through?"

"The prisoner will keep silent," snapped the Mexican sergeant.

Holcomb looked at the man with eyes of chill authority. "When I speak to the prisoner he answers. Understand?"

"Si, senor," muttered the sergeant, taken aback. "But the general said—"

"Forget it," cut in the Texan crisply. He turned to Yeager and spoke deliberately, looking straight at him. "Pasquale is going through with this thing. Just as sure as the old reprobate is alive the padre will marry your little friend to him within half an hour."

Was Captain Holcomb giving him a message? Steve did not know. It seemed to him that there was some hidden meaning in the long look of the steady eyes.

The soldier nodded curtly and turned away. The Texan was dressed with unusual care. He was wearing tanned boots newly polished and the trim khaki uniform of an officer of the United States Army. Looking at him, Yeager thought he had never seen a finer figure of a man. He carried himself with the light firmness of a trained soldier.

The cowpuncher was puzzled. Had Holcomb an ace up his sleeve? If so, what could it be? He had said that the marriage would be pushed through just as sure as Pasquale was alive. Had there been the slightest emphasis on that part of the sentence? Steve was not certain. It had struck him that the captain's soft voice had lingered on the words, but that might have been fancy. Yet he could not escape the feeling that something tragic was impending.

The chattering of the peons crowded in the road died away as if at a signal. From the other end of the line rose a shout. "Viva Pasquale! Viva Pasquale!"

Troopers pushed through and opened up a lane.

The general was for once in full uniform. Evidently he had just come from the hands of a barber. His fierce mustache and eyebrows had been trimmed and subdued. He smiled broadly as he bowed to the plaudits of his men.

Then he turned and Steve caught sight of the bride. Colorless to the lips, she trembled as she moved forward, her eyes on the ground.

It was as if some bell rang within her to tell of the presence of her lover. Ruth raised her big sad eyes and they met those of Steve. Her lips framed his name soundlessly. She seemed to lean toward him, straining from Pasquale, whose arm supported her.

Somehow she broke free and flung herself toward the man she loved. Her arms fastened around his neck. With a shivering sob she clung tightly to him.

Pasquale, his eyes stabbing with brutal rage, dragged her back and held her wrist in his sinewy brown hand. His teeth were clenched, the veins in his temples swollen. He glared at the cowpuncher as if he would like to murder him on the spot.

The padre touched Gabriel on the arm. With a start the Liberator came to himself. The procession moved forward again. Not a word had been spoken, but Pasquale's golden smile had vanished. The fingernails of his clenched fist bit savagely into the palm of his hand.

From the procession Culvera saluted Yeager ironically. "Buenos and adios, senor."

The man to whom he spoke did not even know the Mexican was there. His eyes and his mind were following the girl who was being driven to her doom.

From out of the crowd edging the walk a man stepped. It was Adam Holcomb. He stood directly in front of Pasquale and his bride, blocking the way. There was a strange light in his eyes. It was as if he looked from the present far into the future, as if somehow he were a god, an Olympian who held in his hand the shears of destiny.

The general, still furious, flung an angry look at him. "Well?" he demanded harshly.

"I want to ask the lady a question, general."

Impatient rage boiled out of Pasquale in an imperious gesture of his arm. "Afterward, captain. You shall ask her a hundred. Move aside."

"I'll ask it now. This wedding doesn't go on until I hear from the young lady that she is willing," he announced.

Ruth tried to run forward to him, but the iron grip of the Mexican stayed her. "Save me," she cried.

"By God! I will."

"Arrest that man," ordered Pasquale in a passion.

At the same time he pushed Ruth from him into the crowd that lined the path. The brown fingers of the Mexican chief closed upon the handle of his revolver.

"Here's where I go on a long journey," the Texan cried.

He dragged out an army forty-five. Pasquale and he fired at the same instant. The Mexican clutched at his heart and swayed back into the crowd. Holcomb staggered, but recovered himself. He faced the other Mexican officers, tossed away his revolver, and folded his arms.

"Whenever you are ready, gentlemen," he said quietly.

Ramon Culvera was the first to recover. From his automatic revolver he flung a bullet into the straight, erect figure facing him. The others crowded forward and fired into the body as it began to sink. The Texan gave a sobbing sigh. Before his knees reached the ground he was dead.

The suddenness of the tragedy, its unexpectedness, held the crowd with suspended breath. What was to follow? Was this the beginning of a massacre? Each man looked at his neighbor. Another moment might bring forth anything.

With a bound Ramon vaulted to the saddle of a horse standing near. His sword made a half-circle of steel as it swept through the air. From where he sat he could be seen by all.

"Brothers of the Legion, patriots all, let none become excited. I have killed with my own hand the traitor who shot our beloved leader. Gabriel Pasquale is dead, but our country lives. Viva Mexico!"

The answer came from thousands of brown, upturned faces. "Viva Mexico! Viva Culvera!"

The young officer swung the sword around his head. His eyes flashed. "Gracias. Friends, I solemnly pledge my life to the great cause of the people. Our hero is dead. We mourn him and devote ourselves anew to the principles for which he fought. Never shall I lay down this sword until I have won for you the rights of a free nation. I promise you land for all, wealth for all, freedom from tyranny. Down with all the foes of the poor."

Again the shouts rang out, this time louder and clearer. Already these simple, childlike peons were answering the call of their new master. Old Pasquale, who for years had held their lives in the hollow of his hand, lay crumpled on the ground almost forgotten. A new star was shining in their firmament.

"We shall march to Mexico, down the usurper, and distribute the stolen wealth of him and his pampered minions among the people to whom it belongs. Every Mexican shall have a house, land, cattle. He shall be the slave of none. His children shall be fed. We shall have peace and plenty. I, Ramon Culvera, swear it. Mexico for the Mexicans."

Culvera was an orator. His resonant voice stirred the emotions of this ragged mob that under the leadership of Pasquale had been hammered into an army efficient enough to defeat well-armed regulars. The men pressed closer to listen. Their primitive faces reflected the excitement the speaker stirred in them. They interrupted with shouts and cheers.

Others among the officers had ambitions for leadership, but they knew now that Ramon had made the moment his and forestalled them. He had won the army over to him.

He spoke briefly, but he took pains to see that no other speaker followed him. The plaudits for "General Culvera" rang like sweet music in his ears. They told him that he had at a bound passed the officers who ranked him and was already in effect chief of the Army of the North.

Briefly he gave directions for the care of the body of the dead general and for the safety of the American prisoners pending a disposition of their cases. Before dismissing the army, he called an immediate conference of the officers.

Resolved to strike while the iron was hot, Culvera took charge of the meeting of officers and proposed at once the election of a general to succeed Pasquale. His associates were taken by surprise. They looked out of the windows and saw pacing up and down the armed sentries Ramon had set. They heard still an occasional distant cheer for the new leader. Given time, they might have organized an opposition. But Culvera drove them to instant decision. They faced the imperious will of a man who would stick at nothing to satisfy his ambition.

Moreover, Ramon was popular. He was of a good family, democratic in manner, never arrogant on the surface to his equals. It had been his object to make friends against the possibility of just such a contingency. Most of the officers liked, even though they did not fully trust him. They recognized that he had the necessary confidence in himself for success and also the touch of dramatic genius that may make of a soldier a public idol.

For which reasons they submitted to his domination and elected him successor of Pasquale as commander of the Legion of the North. Whereupon Ramon unburdened himself of another fiery oration of patriotism full of impossible pledges.

The newly chosen general sent an orderly out to proclaim the day a holiday and to see that mescal was served to all the men in honor of the event. After which the conference discussed the fate of the American prisoners.



CHAPTER XXVI

AT SUNSET

Steve, in solitary confinement, with only his throbbing leg for company, was under no illusions as to what his punishment would be. Pasquale had been killed by an American who had been seen talking with Yeager five minutes before he had shot the general. The charge against him would probably be conspiracy, but it did not much matter what the excuse was. His life would be snuffed out certainly.

There were several reasons why Culvera should sacrifice him and not one why he should be spared. Ramon had a personal grudge against him, and the new commander was not a man to forget to pay debts of this kind. Moreover, the easiest way to still any whispered doubts of his own loyalty to Pasquale was to show sharp severity in punishing those charged with being implicated in his death.

Yeager accepted it as settled that he was doomed.

But what about his friends? What of Threewit and Farrar? And, above all, what of Ruth? Would Culvera think it necessary to extend his vengeance to them? Or would prudence stay his hand after he had executed the chief offender?

Culvera was a good politician. The chances were that he would not risk stirring up a hornet's nest by shooting a man as well known in the United States as Threewit. Since Farrar was in the same case, he would probably stand or fall by the Lunar director. As for Ruth—her life would be safe enough. There was no doubt of that. But—what of her future?

Ramon was a known libertine. No scruples would restrain him if he thought the game was a safe quarry. And Steve knew with a sinking heart that he could offer to any official inquiry of the United States Government a plausible story of an abandoned woman who had come to camp to sell her charms to the highest bidder. It would be easy to show that she had ridden down with a man suspected of being a rustler and known to be a bad character, that she had jilted him for Pasquale who was already married and a good deal more than twice her age, and that after the death of Gabriel she had turned at once to his successor. To twist the facts in support of such an interpretation of her conduct would require only a little distortion here and there. The truth, twisted, makes the most damnable lies.

Without any heroics Holcomb had given his life to save her because she was an American woman. Yeager counted himself a dead man in the same cause. What wrung his heart now, and set him limping up and down his cell regardless of the pain from his wounded leg, was the fear that the price had been paid in vain. Little Ruth! Little Ruth! His heart went out to her in an agony of despair.

While he clung rigid to the window bars of his prison the rusty lock in the door creaked. The sergeant with the cruel little eyes entered with three men.

"Ho, ho! The general wants the Gringo to cut out his heart and liver. Come! Let us not keep him waiting. He is sharpening the knife and it may lose the edge."

A horse was waiting outside and the prisoner was assisted to the saddle. One man led the horse by the bridle and on either side of Yeager rode a second and a third. All of them were armed. The new general was taking no chances of an escape.

At sight of the American the young Mexican at the head of the long table where Pasquale had held his councils showed a flash of fine teeth in a glittering smile.

"Welcome, Senor Yeager. How is the wounded leg?"

Steve nodded casually. "It's talking to me, general, but I reckon it's good enough to do all the walking I'll ask of it," he answered quietly.

Culvera turned with a laugh to Ochampa. "He is what the Gringoes call game. Is it not so, major?"

Ochampa, his wounded leg on a chair, grunted.

"Turn about is fair play. How is your leg, major?" asked Steve.

The major glared at him. "Is it that I must put up with the insolence of this scoundrel, general?" he demanded.

"Not for long," replied Culvera suavely. "Pedro Cabenza, or Yeager, or whatever you call yourself, you have been tried for rebellion, insubordination, and conspiracy to kill General Pasquale. You have been sentenced to be shot at sunset. The order of the military court will be carried out as decreed."

The cowpuncher took it without the twitching of a muscle in the brown face. He knew there was no use of an appeal for mercy and he made none.

"So I've been tried and convicted without even being present. Fine business. I reckon you've got an explanation handy when Uncle Sam comes asking whyfor you murdered an American citizen."

Culvera lifted in mock surprise his eyebrows. "An American citizen! Surely not. I execute Pedro Cabenza, a peon, enlisted in the Army of the North, because he plotted with the foes of the Republic and helped prisoners escape, and because he conspired to assassinate our glorious chief, General Pasquale." Ramon put his forearm on the table and leaned forward with an ironic smile. "But your point is well made, Pedro. Lies spread on the wings of the wind. I shall forestall any slanderous untruths by having a photograph taken of you before the execution, and another of your body afterward. I thank you for the suggestion."

Though it told against him the American knew this was a bull's-eye hit. A photograph of him in his rags, with his serape and his ventilated sombrero, face as brown as a berry, would be sufficient proof to exonerate Culvera of the charge of having shot an American. Steve had made up too well for the part. At worst Culvera could plead a regrettable mistake.

"You make out a good case against Pedro Cabenza, general," admitted the condemned man evenly. "Good enough. We'll put him in the discard. I suppose you won't deny that Threewit and Farrar and Miss Seymour are Americans."

With a confidential grin Ramon nodded. "You've put your finger on the pulse of my difficulty. You see, I talk to you frankly because I have the best of reasons for knowing you will never betray me. No doubt you recall your proverb about dead men telling tales. Just so. Well, I don't know what the devil to do with your friends Farrar and Threewit. I have nothing against them, but if I send them home they will talk. Would it be best, do you think, to arrange an accident for them while on the way back to Arizona?"

"Not at all. I'll make a written confession, and they can sign it as witnesses, that I plotted against Pasquale and was implicated in his murder. That will let you out nicely, general. Then you can send them home, and the young lady in their care. So you will even scores with me quite safely to yourself."

The Mexican commander looked steadily out of the window at a dog scratching himself in the street. "I don't recall mentioning the young lady. Her future is arranged."

The temples of the cowpuncher throbbed. He pretended to misunderstand the meaning of the other man. "Of course. I understand that you can do nothing else but send her home. The one thing that would bring our army across the line on the jump would be for you to hurt a hair of this girl's head. You could kill a dozen men and get away with it quicker than you could to insult one little girl. But, of course, you know that."

The fingers of Culvera drummed absently on the table. "I think the senorita and I will be able to adjust the matter without any help from you. If you have any last messages for her I'll be glad to carry them, since I expect to see her this evening."

Steve had disdained to beg for himself, but now he begged for the girl he loved.

"You're a man, Ramon Culvera. Nobody ever claimed there is any yellow in you. Your father was a gentleman and so is his son. You fight with men and not with timid girls. You wouldn't do this girl dirt because she is alone and has no friends near. Think of your own sisters, man."

Ochampa moved restlessly in his chair. "We had better send the girl home. She will bring us trouble else."

His superior officer flashed a quick look at him. "That is a bridge we shall cross when we come to it. Meanwhile I say adios, Senor Yeager. Shall I send you the padre?"

"Thanks, no! But remember this. You stake your whole future on the treatment you give Miss Seymour. If you don't play fair with her, you lose."

Ramon clapped his hands three times. A soldier entered the room.

"Take the Gringo back to his prison," ordered Culvera.

"The order stands, general? At sunset?" asked the man.

"It stands," assented Ramon; and turned to Ochampa: "Have you agreed on a price for that bunch of cattle with the Flying D rustlers, major?"



CHAPTER XXVII

CULVERA RECONSIDERS

Spurred by Daisy Ellington, the star of the border Lunar Company had kept the wires hot with messages to "the old man" in New York. To do him justice the president of the company rose to the occasion as soon as it was impressed upon his mind that Threewit and the others were in serious danger. He telegraphed for Lennox to meet him in Washington and hurried to the Capitol himself to lay the case before the senior Senator from New York, a statesman who happened to be under political obligations to him.

The Arizona congressional delegation was called into conference and an appointment made to meet the President of the United States. As soon as Lennox reached the city, he was hurried to the White House, where he told the story before the President and the Secretary of State.

The case called for prompt action. Instructions were wired to Captain Girard, stationed with his company at Bisbee, Arizona, to act as a special envoy from the President to General Pasquale.

Girard, with a corporal, two saddle-horses, and a pack-horse, entrained at once. Four hours later he was dropped at a tank station, from which point he and the corporal struck straight into the barren desert. The glare of the afternoon sun was slanting down upon them when they started. Their shadows grew longer as they rode. The sun, a ball of fire, dropped below the distant horizon edge and left a sky of wonder to drive a painter to despair.

The gold and crimson and purple softened as the minutes passed. The distant ridges were no longer flamed with edgings of fire. A deep purple predominated and was lightened presently to a velvet violet haze. Then the stars came out, close and cold and innumerable.

Still Girard rode, taking advantage of the cool breath of night. Toward morning he stopped at a sand-wash where three or four dusty cottonwoods relieved the vegetation of mesquite, palo verde, and cacti. Among the rocks a spring rose hesitant to the surface and struggled faintly for life against the palpitating heat and thirsty drought of the desert.

The corporal hobbled the horses. The men stretched themselves in the sand and fell into deep sleep. It was noon when they awoke. They ate, lounged in such shade as the cottonwoods offered from the quivering heat, and waited till mid-afternoon. Having saddled and repacked, they struck again across the dreary roll of sandhills and washes. When Noche Buena lay at their feet the sun was low in the sky.

Into the dusty main street of the village the two men rode at a walk. A sentinel with a rifle stopped them. Girard explained that he wanted to see Pasquale.

"He is dead—shot by a Gringo who has gone to hell already. And another Gringo will be shot when the sun falls below the hills, and perhaps another to-morrow. Who knows? You, too, may pay for the death of the Liberator," jeered the sentry.

"Pasquale dead—and shot by an American?" asked the captain in surprise.

"As I have said. But General Culvera killed the dog in his tracks. Ho, Manuel! Call an officer. A Gringo wants to see the general," he shouted to a barefoot trooper crouched in the shade of an adobe house.

Girard explained to the officer that he was a messenger from the President of the United States. He and the corporal were searched and their arms removed.

The Mexican officer apologized. "Since Pasquale was murdered, we take no chances," he explained. "You understand I do not at all doubt you are what you say. But we search all strangers to make sure."

After Culvera had glanced over the credentials of Girard, he was all suavity. "I offer you a hundred welcomes; first for yourself, as an officer of the army of our sister Republic, and second as an envoy from your President, for whom I have a most profound respect. But not a word of your mission until we have dined. You will want first of all a bath after your long dusty trip. May I offer you my own quarters for the present till arrangements can be made?"

Captain Girard bowed. "You are very kind, general. Believe me, I appreciate your courtesy. But first I must raise one point. I have been told that an American is to be executed at sunset, which is almost immediately. You will understand that as a representative of the United States it is necessary that I should investigate the facts."

Swiftly Culvera considered. If the American officer had arrived an hour later, Yeager would have been safely out of the way. How had he discovered already that an American was to be shot? Was it worth while denying it? But what if Girard insisted on seeing the execution? What if he asked to see Yeager? Ramon's glance swept the obstinate face of the captain. He decided it better to acknowledge the truth.

"It is to me a matter of profound regret," he sighed. "The man enlisted in our army as a spy, disguised as a peon. He is guilty of the murder of one of our men in a gambling-house. He attempted to kill General Pasquale a short time ago. He was undoubtedly in league with the man Holcomb, the assassin of our great general. He shot Major Ochampa, but fortunately the major is recovering. The man is a border ruffian of the worst stamp."

"May I talk with him, general?"

"But certainly—if the man is still living," assented the Mexican.

The American officer looked straight at Ramon. His steady eyes made no accusation, mirrored no suspicion. Culvera could not tell what he was thinking. But he recognized resentfully a compulsion in them that he could not safely ignore.

"With your permission I should like to talk also with Miss Seymour and the two moving-picture men," said Captain Girard.

The Mexican adventurer announced a decision he had come to that very instant, one to which the inconvenient arrival of the envoy from the President of the United States had driven him.

"I am making arrangements to have them all three taken safely back to Arixico. Between you and me, captain, old Pasquale was something of a savage. It is my purpose to win and hold the friendship of the United States. I don't underestimate Pasquale. He was my friend and chief. He made a free Mexico possible. But he was primitive. He did not understand international relations. He treated the citizens of your great country according to his whims. That was a mistake. I shall so act as to win the approval of your great President."

"I am very glad to hear that. The surest foundation upon which you can build for a free Mexico is justice for all, general. And now, if I may see Yeager."

A messenger was sent to bring the prisoner. He found an officer with a firing party already crossing the plaza to the place of execution. The prisoner was bareheaded, ragged, unkempt. His arms were tied by the elbows behind his back. But the spirit of the unbeaten spoke in his eyes and trod in his limping step.

"The general wishes to see the prisoner," explained the messenger to the officer.

The party wheeled at a right angle, toward the headquarters of Culvera.

Steve thought he understood what this meant. Culvera had sent for him to gloat over him, to taunt him. The man wanted to hear him beg for his life. The teeth of the cowpuncher clenched tightly till the muscles of the jaw stood out like ropes. He would show this man that an American did not face a firing squad with a whine.

At sight of the captain of cavalry sitting beside Culvera the heart of Yeager leaped. The long arm of Uncle Sam had reached across the border in the person of this competent West Pointer. It meant salvation for Ruth, for his friends, possibly even for himself.

"Captain Girard wants to ask you a few questions," Culvera explained.

Without waiting for questions Yeager spoke. "Do you know that an American girl is held prisoner here, captain,—that Pasquale was driving her to a forced marriage when Holcomb shot him to save her?"

Girard turned toward the general, a question in his eyes.

Ramon shrugged his shoulders. "I told you Pasquale was a barbarian. The trouble is he was a peon. He took what he wanted."

"Her name is Ruth Seymour. She's a fine girl, captain. You'll save her, of course, and see that she gets home," continued Steve.

"I have the promise of General Culvera to see her and your friends safe to Arixico," replied Girard.

"You'll ride with them yourself all the way," urged the prisoner.

"No doubt. But, of course, the word of General Culvera—"

"—Is worth what it is worth," Yeager finished for him.

"The man stands in the shadow of death. Let him say what he likes," said the Mexican contemptuously to the officer beside him.

"You are charged with being a spy, Mr. Yeager. I am told you were captured in disguise after having plotted to help prisoners escape," said Girard.

Yeager nodded quietly. "Technically I am a spy. I came here to try to save Miss Seymour and my friends. The attempt failed and I was captured."

"Are you a spy in the sense that you were in the employ of the enemies of General Pasquale and his armies?"

"No. Culvera understands that perfectly well. I came only to look out for my friends."

Girard knew what manner of man Yeager was. He intended to save his life if it could be done. This would be possible only if Culvera could be made to feel that it would cost too much to punish him.

"It is claimed that you attempted the life of General Pasquale once."

"Nothing to that. I was a prisoner, condemned to be shot in the morning. He came to my cell and offered me my life if I would knife Culvera in the back. I couldn't see the proposition. But I got a chance, knocked him down, tied him up, and slipped out in his serape. Then I made my getaway on the horse he had left for me in case I came through with the knifing."

Instantly Culvera knew the story to be true. It cannot be said that he was grateful to Yeager, but the edge of his resentment against him was dulled.

"Sounds like a plausible story, doesn't it?" he suggested ironically. "Why should Pasquale want the death of his friend, his lieutenant, the man who was closest to him among all his followers?"

"Send for Juan Garcia. He was on sentry duty that night. Ask him as to the facts," the cowpuncher proposed.

Girard turned to his host and spoke to him in a low voice. "General, this man has a good reputation at home. He has a host of friends in Arizona. I believe he is speaking the truth. Perhaps General Pasquale may have been too hasty. Let us send for all the witnesses and make a thorough investigation of the charges against him. I shall be called to Washington after I have wired my report. The President, no doubt, will question me. Make it possible for me to tell him that under the rule of General Culvera a regime begins that is founded on justice for all."

Culvera was far from a fool. He had lived in the United States and understood something of the temper of its people. The fall of Huerta was potent proof that no ruler could survive in Mexico if the Government at Washington was set in opposition to him. After all, the life of Yeager was only a small matter. Why not use him as a pawn in the game to win the approval of the big Republic to the north?

With his most engaging smile Ramon offered his hand to Captain Girard. "You are right. Pasquale was a child, a creature of moods, of foolish suspicions and tempestuous passions. Perhaps this man tells the truth. It may be he has been condemned unjustly. You and I, my friend, shall sit in judgment on him. If he be guilty, we shall condemn; if innocent, acquit. Meanwhile I will remand him to prison and order the execution postponed. Does that satisfy you, captain?"

The American officer shook hands warmly. "General, it is a pleasure to meet a man like you. Mexico is fortunate in having such a son."

Culvera beamed. "Gracias. And now, captain, first a bath, then dinner. Afterwards you shall talk with the moving-picture men." He turned affably to Yeager. "I shall give orders that you be given a good dinner to-night. To-morrow we shall pass judgment on you."

Steve nodded to the West Pointer. "Much obliged, captain."



CHAPTER XXVIII

AS LONG AS LIFE

Breakfast was served to Yeager next morning by a guard who either knew nothing or would tell nothing of what was going on in the camp. After he had eaten, nobody came near the prisoner for hours. Through the barred window he could see a sentry pacing up and down or squatting in the shade of the deserted building opposite. No other sign of human life reached him.

His nerves were keyed to a high tension. Culvera was an opportunist. Perhaps something had occurred to make him change his mind. Perhaps he had decided, after all, not to play for the approval of the United States. In revolutionary Mexico much can happen in a few hours.

Steve was a man of action. It did not suit his temperament to sit cooped up in a prison while things were being done that affected the happiness of Ruth and his own life. He tried to persuade himself that all was going well, but as the fever of his anxiety mounted, he found himself limping up and down the short beat allowed him from wall to wall.

It was noon before he was taken from his cell. Steve counted it a good augury that a saddle horse was waiting for him to ride. Last night he had limped across the plaza on his wounded leg.

He and his little procession of guards cut straight across to headquarters. Culvera sat on the porch smoking a cigarette. He was dressed immaculately in a suit of white linen with a blue sash. His gold-trimmed sombrero was a work of art.

At sight of Yeager the Mexican general smiled blandly.

"Are you ready to take a long journey, Senor Yeager?" he asked.

The heart of the cowpuncher lost a beat, but he did not bat an eye. "What journey? The same one that Holcomb took?" he demanded bluntly.

Culvera showed a face of pained surprise. "Am I a barbarian? Do you think me another Pasquale? No, no, senor. You and I have had our disagreements. But they are past. To tell the truth, I always did like the way you see a thing through to a fighting finish. Now that I know you are not the ruffian I had been led to think you, it is a pleasure to me to tell you that you have been tried and acquitted. I offer regrets for the inconvenience to which you have been put. You will pardon, is it not so, and do me the honor to dine with me before you leave?"

The heels of the Mexican came together, he bowed, and offered a hand to the range-rider.

"Just one moment, general. All that listens fine to me, but—what are the conditions?"

Ramon made a gesture of regret at being so sadly misunderstood. "Conditions! There are none."

"None at all?"

"None. Is it that you think me a peddler instead of a gentleman?" The face of the young Mexican expressed sorrow rather than anger.

Still Steve doubted. "Let's understand each other, general. Are you telling me that I can walk out of that door, climb into a saddle, and keep going till I get back into old Arizona?"

"I tell you that—and more. You will be furnished an escort to see you safely across the line. You may choose your own guard if you doubt."

"And my friends?"

"They go, too, of course."

"All of them?"

The Mexican smiled. "You're the most suspicious man I ever knew. All of them, Senor Yeager."

"Including Miss Seymour?" The range-rider spoke quietly, but his eyes were like swords.

"Naturally she will not wish to stay here when her friends leave."

Steve leaned against the porch post with a deep breath of relaxation. "If I'm sleeping, don't let any one wake me, general," he implored, smiling for the first time.

"I confess your amazement surprises me," said Culvera suavely. "Did you think all Mexicans were like Pasquale? He was a great man, but he was a savage. Also, he was a child at statecraft. I used to warn him to cooeperate with the United States if he wished to succeed. But he was ignorant and eaten up with egotism."

"You're right he was, general."

"A new policy is now in operation. In freeing you I ask only that you set me and my army right with your people. Let them understand that we stand for a free Mexico and for justice."

The hands of the two men gripped.

"I'll sure do my share, general."

"We're to have a little luncheon before you go. Captain Girard and your friends are to be my guests. You will join us; not so?"

"Gracias, general. Count me in."

The black eyes of the Mexican twinkled. "Your wound—does it greatly trouble you, senor?"

"Some. When I walk."

"Too bad. I was going to ask you to step upstairs and tell Senorita Seymour that General Culvera will be delighted to have her join us at luncheon. But, of course, since your leg troubles you—"

"It's a heap better already, general. You're giving me good medicine."

"Ah! I think you know the lady's room. But perhaps I had better call a peon."

The eyes of the cowpuncher were bright. "Now, don't you, general. Keep on talking and you're liable to spoil what you've said," answered Steve with his old gay laugh.

He hobbled out of the room and up the stairs.

The door of Ruth's room was open. She sat huddled in a chair looking straight before her. There were shadows under her young eyes that never should have been there. Her lissome figure had lost its gallantry, the fine poise that had given her a note of wild freedom. Steve had come up so quietly that she evidently had not heard, for she did not turn her weary head to see who it was.

He stood a moment, hesitating on the threshold. She sat without moving, a pathetic picture of despair and grief. A man had died for her yesterday. Another man was to die to-day because he had tried to save her. She herself was in danger still. The tragedy of life had carried her beyond tears.

When he moved forward a step she turned. Her lips parted in surprise. The dark eyes under her tumbled, blue-black hair stared in astonishment. Slowly she rose, never lifting her gaze from him. With a little cry of wonder she stretched her arms toward this man who had come to her as if from the dead.

In two strides he reached her and swept the girl into his arms. He kissed the tired eyes, the tousled hair, the soft cheeks into which the color began to flow. She clung to him, afraid to let him go, uncertain whether it was a reality.

At last she spoke. "It is you, isn't it? I thought ... they told me ... that you...."

He laughed softly with the joy of it all. "I'm free—free to go home with you, Ruth,—back to God's country, to friends and life and love."

"Are you going to take me, too?" she asked with naive simplicity.

"Is it likely I'd go without you? Yes, we're all going. Culvera has seen the light. Soon all this will be like a nightmare from which we have escaped. That's right, honey. Cry if you want to. Little girl, little girl, how am I ever going to tell you how much I love you?"

She wept with gladness and relief while he held her tightly in his arms and promised to keep her against all harm as long as life lasted.

And afterward, when smiles came again, they fell into the inarticulate babblings that from the beginning of time have been the expression of lovers.

They forgot time, so that neither knew how long it had been before a denim-clad soldier stood saluting in the doorway.

Steve, over his shoulder, fired a question at the man. "What do you want?"

"The compliments of General Culvera, senor and senorita, and I was to remind you that luncheon has been waiting twenty minutes."

Steve and Ruth looked at each other and laughed. They went downstairs hand in hand.

THE END