Alexander Key
The House of the Sword
Novelette
Its walls were nine feet thick – and yet – tears – and blood – and death—
Its walls were nine feet thick – but blood – tears – and death can penetrate – even—
The Casa de la Espada had been built upon the foundations of a pre-Mayan temple, and its walls were nine feet thick at the base. It sprawled upon an eminence of rock overlooking the town and bay from the upper terrace; the other three sides dropped sheer away to the deep-blue waters of a “well” that curled around it like a natural, Gargantuan moat.
In times past the well had been used for sacrificial purposes, but the projecting ledge from which the priests of the sun had hurled their victims now formed the balcony where the successive presidents of San Angelo usually took their afternoon siestas.
Square, fortresslike, of some twenty rooms if one did not count the subterranean compartments, the House of the Sword was appropriately named. Since the days of the Conquest it had seen its share of blood and tears and death, and more than once the blue waters of the well, a hundred and fifty feet below, had been stained crimson.
Don Julio Rafael Córdovez de Alfaro y Boz, distinctive among San Angelo’s presidents in that he had managed to rule undisputed for five years, unlocked the heavy oaken door leading upon the terrace, and went out to meet the figure climbing the seven long flights of steps from the town. It was a lieutenant of the guards, bearing a white flag.
Don Julio was a little man, fat and round and bald and rather cherublike. In spite of this he was a gentleman of temperament with an emotional repertoire that was famous; upon occasion he could even achieve the dignity of a Caesar.
The young officer swaggered to the top step, tossed the flag to one side, clicked his heels, and bowed. But as he met Don Julio’s eyes, much of the insolence left him.
Don Julio spat contemptuously. “So you, too, have gone over to Aguilar and the Yankees!”
The officer flushed. “Your excellency,” he began, “I regret the circumstances which have forced me—”
“Do not waste my time with regrets, you pig! Deliver your message.”
“Your excellency, General Aguilar is in control of the army and the town, and the people have submitted without resistance. His ultimatum is that you surrender unconditionally and trust in his generosity. Perhaps, if you will quietly turn over the affairs of the state—”
“Enough of that!” snapped Don Julio. “Speak plainly. You mean your dog of a general wishes me to turn over the contents of the treasury so he can keep his promises to the army. Were not the Yankee bribes enough to satisfy him? Or have the Yankees forgotten to pay?”
“Never mind the Yankees,” growled the officer. “General Aguilar intends to find out what you have done with the money. If he does not have it by tomorrow morning, he cannot be responsible for what may happen to you or the Señorita Estella.”
“The Señorita Estella does not enter the discussion. Remind your dog of a general that while I am in possession of the Casa I am still President of San Angelo. In another week the people will come to their senses. Aguilar will go the way of other upstarts, and you, my friend, will be saying your prayers to a firing squad.”
The officer gave an ugly laugh. “We are not worried about the people. There is no longer a Don Colorado to lead them. Without a leader the people will do nothing. And without help you cannot defend the Casa. Remember, you have until morning. If the Casa de la Espada is not open then, we will storm it and take it by force.”
Don Julio inclined his head suddenly and smiled. “I trust,” he said softly, “you have sufficient ammunition in the cuartel for your purpose.” He turned, and, without looking back, went through the heavy door, locking and barring it behind him.
* * *
Within the great, dark hallway his excellency’s sang-froid deserted him utterly. He cursed. He raised clenched fists to the ceiling and shook them until the sweat coursed down his round face. His short legs kicked over a table and a chair, and his foot crashed into a priceless Mayan urn. He picked up the pieces and hurled them through the drawing room; they spun across a desk of fine Alsatian oak, putting new scars in a surface already marred by sword and pistol ball of another day. “Pigs! Dogs! Hounds of hell!” he shrieked. “Robbers! Thieves! Five years I’ve spent keeping out the foreign leeches, and now come the Yankee dollars to change it all!”
A pathetic and impotent little figure, realizing his futility, he raged through the long ballroom, tore a Gobelin tapestry from the wall and stamped upon it while old Pepe, who had been his servant for two decades, followed and stood watching him sorrowfully. Old Pepe knew his excellency’s every mood.
Once, not so very long ago, his excellency had been a revolutionist himself, and had even led a band of insurgents into this very room; with his own hand he had shot down the former president of San Angelo. The former president had been a pig and a despot, of course, as old Pepe very well knew, and Don Julio’s action had been purely altruistic. What a shame that a man so sincere and so patriotic as Don Julio should be helpless now before another despot! Ah. that Don Colorado, that fearless one of many battles, could be here by his excellency’s side again! Old Pepe shook his head and tears rolled down his lined cheeks.
Don Julio whirled about and kicked the tapestry aside. He stiffened and abruptly grew quiet. A slender, pale, but very pretty girl had entered the ballroom and was hurrying toward him. She had Don Julio’s black eyes, but her hair was blond like her Danish mother’s. Wound smooth across her head, it gave the impression of a wide band of glistening yellow silk.
“Now papa, please, you mustn’t have another tantrum.” She flew into his arms and for a minute he held her tenderly, gently patting the silky band of her hair. She was his only child.
He looked at Pepe. “Call the servants,” he said quietly. “Call every one.”
“My little one,” he went on to Estella, “I wish you had left yesterday while there was time. It is too late now. Aguilar’s promises are thin as paper. There can be no bargaining with a man like that. We have until to-morrow morning.”
“If his promises are thin,” retorted the girl hotly, “the Casa’s walls are thick. We’ll fight and hold it as long as we can! And the money – that belongs to the poor people of San Angelo. I’d rather be dead than have Aguilar get it! Oh, I wish Don Colorado were here again.”
Don Julio sighed. “There’s no use thinking of him, child. He belongs to the past, not the present.”
* * *
Pepe came back. With him were his son and grandson: Louis in his uniform of the guards, and little José, a ragged urchin of twelve. Behind them were three of the Indian women from the kitchen, and two swarthy, silent peons who had fought with empty pistol and machete in the days of the rebellion. Louis was armed with an automatic pistol. The peons carried rusty carbines.
One of the Indian women was absent. “Where is old Rosa?” asked Don Julio.
The others looked at each other. The faces of the peons were like chipped mahogany, hard with hate. “My patron,” one said finally, “she went out this morning to see her little niña. She lies now below the bottom terrace with one of the dog Aguilar’s bullets in her head. I can see her from high up on the azotea.”
“No one told me this,” Don Julio said slowly.
“You have worries enough, my patron.”
“Rosa,” Don Julio murmured, “poor Rosa.” His eyes clouded and his hands shook. “By Heaven!” he shrieked suddenly. “Pepe! Louis! Drag furniture in front of the door. Carlos, back to the azotea and keep watch. José, you little gallego, help Renaldo bring more arms from the chest!”
“My patron,” said the boy, “there is no ammunition. When the other guard deserted yesterday, he took all the bullets he could find and removed the bolts from the rifles.”
For a moment Don Julio seemed ready to fly into a white rage. Then his voice came softly. “Bring knives, machetes. If the Casa de la Espada must go to Aguilar, let us pray that it will cost him much blood.”
Evening deepened, became night. The Casa was silent, the hall and a few of the rooms dimly lighted by candlelight. Don Julio moved quietly through the place; there was a small and rather ineffectual-appearing revolver at his belt. In his hand was a slim sword.
He carefully examined every window, and finally came back to the hall. The outside windows on the lower floor were few, small, and high in the walls. These were safe enough from attack. The Casa de la Espada had but one entrance. This was the great oaken door at the front. Formerly, it had opened directly into the tiny courtyard in the center of the building, but in the past century part of this had been walled off to form the end of the hall and to give more privacy to the front apartments.
With proper arms, the Casa de la Espada was an admirable place to defend. There was but the one narrow approach up the steep hillside, with the sheer walls on the other three sides making it as impregnable as a castle. Two men with sufficient ammunition could hold the place against an army.
Don Julio sighed regretfully. If he had realized this was coming, he could have been prepared for it. But Aguilar’s move had been a totally unexpected one. He had no illusions about what would happen to him if he fell into Aguilar’s hands. If it were only himself, it would not matter. But there was Estella—
Outside, muffled in the distance, he could hear an occasional shot. There would be trouble in the town to-night, plunder and murder. His thoughts were interrupted by Estella calling.
He found her at the far end of the hallway, her eyes wide with terror in the dim candlelight. She was staring at the black arched opening that led into the subterranean cellars far below.
“Child, what is the matter?”
“Papa, listen – do you hear it?”
From below, faint and unreal, came a dull pounding – a strange, ghostly clamor of sound.
“Some one,” she whispered, “is down there.”
“Impossible!” he snapped. “No one could be there. Every one in the house is accounted for.”
Estella’s voice was low, tense. “There is some one – some one knocking on the grotto door that opens to the well.”
“But – but – it is insane! No one could reach the grotto from the outside! The cliff drops ninety feet at the lowest point. In all history no one has ever found a way down!”
“Some one is there,” Estella persisted. “We must see who it is.”
“If this is one of Aguilar’s tricks—” Don Julio set down his candle. He shouted for Pepe and Renaldo. They came running. “Pepe,” he said, handing him his pistol, “stay here with your mistress. Watch the terrace. Be ready if anything happens. Come, Renaldo, and pray that your gun still knows how to shoot the few bullets left in it.”
Slowly, with flickering candle in one hand and sword in the other, Don Julio crept down the dark passageway that had been hewn through solid rock to the base of the cliff. The peon followed, hands gripped tight about the ancient carbine.
Below them the knocking resounded, ghostly, insistent.
II.
Mr. William Ryan sat on the after deck of the Avery steam yacht, Commodore, and tried to pretend that he was both happy and comfortable. He had every reason to be satisfied on either score. Any valet would agree that, in the matter of clothing, Mr. Ryan was a gentleman, and few bankers would hesitate to cash his check for six figures after seeing his letters of credit. He was, furthermore, hardly thirty, and, being engaged to an heiress of distinction, he was considered by many to be a person of exceptional luck.
But Mr. Ryan was morose. For one thing, the well-cut linen suit pinched his broad back, and it seemed he would never get used to the civilized custom of having a tight collar and tie around his neck. There were also several minor matters about which Helen Avery was forever criticizing him. Mr. Ryan was not a Harvard man; in fact, he had never seen the inside of a college.
He got up and leaned over the rail, sniffing the still, tropical night. Something about it brought old memories surging through his mind, and he absently tore off his tie and dropped it into the water. He wondered suddenly where he was. Avery had failed to mention an exact destination.
The Commodore’s engines ceased to throb, and the anchor chains rattled through the hawse. Mr. Ryan stared curiously at a dim shore line.
“Sit down, Bill,” said a voice. “I’ve got something to discuss with you.”.
Ryan drew up a deck chair beside the large, paunchy figure of his host. “What is it, Mr. Avery?” His tone was respectful, purely on Helen’s account. He had never liked Avery.
“Bill,” said Avery, “this is not entirely a pleasure cruise. There is a bit of business to attend to down here, and as my prospective son-in-law, you may as well know about it. I was thinking, also, that you might like to get in on it – in, ah, a financial way.”
Probably, thought Ryan, he’s trying to play me for a sucker like he does every one else. He grunted and said nothing.
From over the water came the sharp, distinct rattle of shots. Ryan stiffened. Under the deck light his wiry brick-red hair seemed to glow with small points of flame. He rubbed a nose that had once been straight, and a devil-may-care glitter came into his hard, blue eyes. “Sounds like a little excitement,” he said.
“That’s Aguilar carrying out our orders,” growled Avery. “At least Gratton cabled me that he expected to have things going to-day.”
“Gratton’s your field man down here, ain’t he?”
“Yes,” said Avery. “Now here’s the layout, Bill. For a long time we’ve had our eyes on the best piece of oil property you ever saw. The only trouble was that the little beggar who runs this dump has some kind of a fool idea about keeping foreigners out and developing the property for the natives. Wouldn’t give us a lease. But we know how to deal with a situation like that.” Avery chuckled. “A bit of money in the right places, and presto, we have a change in government. There are always a few shootings, of course, but that can’t be helped.”
“Isn’t it just too silly,” a feminine voice cut in, “about father being the old bogy behind a revolution?”
Ryan grunted and frowned up at Helen Avery’s platinum loveliness. For some reason, Helen’s artificial beauty irritated him to-night. “You wouldn’t think it so blamed funny if you could see what happens in some o’ them squabbles.” he said.
“Really, Bill, I don’t see why you should talk that way. Those people are so stupid and ignorant. They should be grateful that some one would wish to come in and develop their country. And I wish, my dear, that you would learn to speak a little more like a gentleman.”
“I come from Tennessee,” growled Ryan, “and I reckon the way they talk is good enough for me.” He looked at Avery. “Who’s this here hombre you’re kicking out of office?”
“Some one by the name of Boz, I believe. A Julio Alfaro Boz, or something of the sort. But it doesn’t matter. Aguilar is the man we’re dealing with.”
Ryan stood up slowly. The lean, battered and strangely distinctive features that had made him an outstanding person wherever he went, lost their good humor; they were flintlike and dangerous now. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me this place was San Angelo!” he cried out. “Mebbe you’re dealing with Aguilar, but I ain’t!” He pushed past the dumfounded Avery and went down to his cabin.
* * *
When he came back a few minutes later something heavy bulged under his coat at his left hip.
“W-what’s the matter with you?” Avery sputtered. “Where are you going?”
Ryan ripped a tarpaulin from a dinghy and jerked at the boat falls. “I’m going ashore!” he snapped. “And I’m going to bust up this Aguilar business when I git there.”
“Don’t be a fool!” rasped Avery. “You’ll get killed ashore to-night!”
Ryan pushed him away and swung the dinghy over the side.
“Bill Ryan, have you lost your mind?” Helen cut in icily. “You leave this deck and we’re through!”
“Stop!” Avery suddenly roared. “I’ve got a fortune at stake here! If you think I’m going to alloy you, or any one else—”
“You've got enough money for one man,” Ryan retorted. “Stand aside!”
“I’ll see you in hell first,” bellowed Avery, and swung at him with both fists. He may as well have tried to strike a shadow. Ryan moved slightly and sent Avery sprawling with the flat of his hand. Three uniformed figures of the crew raced aft, stood gaping a moment, and at Helen’s furious order, made what proved to be a foolish attempt to stop the stubborn, red-headed gentleman from going over the rail. Two of them followed Avery into a spinning heap on deck and the third was lifted by the seat of his trousers and catapulted froglike into the water. Mr. William Ryan then calmly dropped down into the dinghy and proceeded to row shoreward.
Ten minutes later he stepped out upon a rickety pier. He stood a moment on the deserted water front, breathing deeply of the odors of decayed fruit, old fish gurry, and rotting sponges. To Mr. Ryan, these smells were the essence of a rare perfume for which he had been hungering a long time without realizing it. He looked around him. Somewhere near, if he remembered correctly, there should be a gnarled lime tree with a cobbled lane beyond it leading up to the town. There was.
He followed it for a hundred yards, past dark houses and high walls overflowing with bougainvillaæ. Within a few feet of the plaza at the top of the slope he stopped. A sleepy guard with a rifle lounged there.
Ryan stepped boldly up to the guard. “Hola, compañero!” He spoke in easy Spanish. “And is the revolución a success?”
The guard awoke and brought his rifle up with a jerk. He blinked and lowered it. “Ay mi madre!” he muttered. “You frightened me. But yes, San Angelo is ours. Don Julio still holds the Casa, but it is a detail which we will attend to in the morning. You are from the Señor Gratton?”
“Hell, no!” growled Ryan, and his hand shot out and clenched the guard by the neck. “Look at me, you pig! Know me?”
* * *
The guard stared; his rifle clattered to the paving. He broke away with a shriek and ran, shouting unintelligibly, across the plaza.
Ryan grinned. The guard would help spread the news. Everything counted now. He swung around the corner, took in the dimly-lighted, statue-crowded plaza at a glance, and walked unconcernedly to a narrow, winding street at his left. In the shadow of it he broke into a trot.
A half hour later he reached the row of cypresses on the edge of town. In front of him was a rocky hill with seven landscaped terraces mounting upward. At the summit, sprawling gray, square and formidable against the deep blue of the tropic night, was the Casa de la Espada.
He flattened behind a tree and studied the place a long time. Ranged in a semicircle about the lower terrace were a score or more of dim figures with rifles. At other points along the hill were more guards. It would be an absolute impossibility for any one to enter or leave the Casa and live.
Ryan rubbed the quirk in his high-bridged nose. No, there was another way, a way no one had ever tried before.
For perhaps a quarter of an hour longer he remained behind the tree, taking in every detail of the hill and the high-walled building on it. Even if he could enter the place, there would also be the problem of getting out again.
Finally, he crept away, following the line of cypresses. Twice he stumbled over the body of a dead man before he reached a footpath leading to the right again. Going up this, he came eventually to a narrow crevice cutting through a dense growth of jungle. In a few seconds he came out upon a high ledge overhanging the well far below. Across the chasm, a hundred feet away and considerably above him, was the Casa.
Ryan glanced down. The well yawned at his feet, a black pit with the water ninety feet beneath. It seemed twice as far away; even so, he knew he stood upon the lowest point of the ledge.
He thrust his pistol tight in its holster, buttoned his coat, and took a deep breath. Abruptly he jumped.
Warm air surged about him; it seemed as if he would fall forever. The water struck his feet with the force of an explosion; the cold of it shocked him. He felt himself going far down into black oblivion; then he was struggling toward the surface. He found it after a long while, and gulped fresh air into his lungs.
Slowly, impeded by his clothing and the heavy pistol at his belt, he swam toward the dark blot of shadow at the base of the opposite cliff. This was a grotto, forming part of the underground compartments at the Casa. A cool, shady, comfortable retreat, it was a place where the president’s family spent their days during the hot months of the dry season.
Ryan pulled himself upon the stone platform jutting out from the recess, and groped toward the stairway leading upward. Too late he remembered the door blocking the entrance. He found it, sought to open it, and realized it was securely locked.
He beat upon it with both fists, shouting. Would they be able to hear him above? He stopped, listened, and finally picked up a stone and hammered upon the thick panels.
Still no answer. It seemed as if he had leaped into a trap, a place from which there could be no escape.
III.
Don Julio’s candle sent weird shadows retreating before him in the dark passageway. He passed low, vaulted rooms and came to a turn; the knocking ahead was louder, ominous.
“My patron,” muttered Renaldo behind him, “it is a demon there. I beg of you to turn back.”
“Hush,” said Don Julio. “Keep your gun ready. No demon could make such an inferno of a racket.”
They approached the door.
Don Julio set down the candle. With his sword’s point in front of him, he lifted the bar and leaped backward.
The door swung open. The candlelight flickered upon a strange, tall figure with sodden clothing clinging to a bony frame. Don Julio stared.
“Hola, amigo!” Ryan grinned. “Thought you were never coming. And have you forgotten me, Bozie?”
Don Julio dropped his sword. He gave a shriek of delight and threw both arms around the other. With Latin fervor he kissed him upon both cheeks, held him off at arm’s length and kissed him again. He shouted, he cried, and tears flowed down his round face. Renaldo thrust his carbine aside and seized Ryan’s hand. “Mi capitán! Mi capitán! You have come back! At first I did not believe my eyes, and then I saw the red of your hair! Only Don Colorado could have the courage to enter this way!”
“Quickly,” sputtered Don Julio. “Let us go up. The others must know of this. Ah, surely there must be a God in heaven to have sent you back!” He pulled Ryan eagerly up the steps. He was shouting before he reached the top. “Come! Pepe, Louis, Estella mío! Every one! See the great fish we have caught in the well! Ah, what a night!”
In the hall, Ryan grinned at the familiar faces pressing about him. A slim, tall girl with hair like yellow silk gave a happy scream and threw both arms around his neck. “You are back! Oh, I prayed you would come back!”
Ryan blinked at her, bewildered. “You – you are not—”
“D-don’t you remember me? You are not glad to see me?” Estella dropped her arms, suddenly shy.
“But you’re not the little spitfire I used to spank for being naughty!” said Ryan, amazed.
Don Julio laughed. “Remember, amigo mio, it has been five years since you were here. Our little Estella has grown much since then. Ah, those were the great days.” He sighed. “Remember how the men dropped their work in the fields when we called? We had only to say that Don Colorado needed them, and they came. Even the Indios came with spear and machete. Remember how we swept across the plaza like a wolf pack, in the face of Mora’s guns? You stormed the cuartel and held back the army, and I came up the hill here and finished—”
* * *
The hall grew quiet. Don Julio’s voice changed. “But those days are gone. The situation is reversed. Another dog has taken Mora’s place. We have no men, no arms, nothing now. In the morning they will attack the Casa. I – I am sorry, my friend, that you are here.”
“We’ll git along, Bozie,” murmured Ryan, absently speaking in his drawling English. “We ain’t started yet. If we figure out some way to hold ’em for two days—”
He straightened suddenly and threw off his sodden coat. Taking out his pistol, he shook the water from it while his eyes studied the assembly. “Counting myself,” he said, “we seem to have six men.”
“Seven, mi capitán!” interrupted José, Louis’s twelve-year-old son.
Ryan glanced down without smiling. “Correct, and I have an important task for you before the night is over.” He looked at the others. “Are these all the weapons? Two pistols, two rusty carbines?”
“That is all, my friend,” said Don Julio. “And we have but a few bullets apiece.”
“Where is that machine gun you bought from a tramp steamer years ago?”
“I still have it; but, amigo mío, it was what you called a dud. Remember? The dog of a marinero fooled me. The gun could not be shot.”
Ryan nodded. The gun was an ancient one; its breech had been bored through after the War to render it harmless and the weapon sold to a curio dealer. Unscrupulous dealers had sold many of these guns in Latin-American countries – after first plugging the holes with lead and then camouflaging their work under a coat of blueing. The first shot generally killed the man who fired it. Luckily, Ryan had discovered the trick in time.
“You still have those cases of ammunition for it?”
“Yes. But the bullets will not fit our other weapons.”
“Never mind, let's get that gun. Take it to the kitchen, Pepe. Louis, bring me tools, everything you’ve got. You used to do a lot of tinkering with guns once; you ought to have a lot of tools somewhere. Hurry! Every minute counts.”
* * *
Pepe and the two peons brought the machine gun from its hiding place in the cellar. Louis came with a tool box. In the kitchen, Ryan took the gun apart quickly, found a drill, and removed the lead from the holes. He pawed through the box, and not finding what he wanted, strode into the drawing room. His eyes lighted upon the great grand piano that had been a gift of the people to Don Julio’s daughter.
Estella was watching. “What are you going to do, Don Colorado?”
“I’m sorry,” said Ryan. He threw back the cover of the instrument and began hacking away inside. “I need wire, and a steel plug for that gun.”
“Anything I have is yours,” said Estella. “The piano does not matter.” Back in the kitchen, Ryan set Louis to work cutting one of the pins taken from the piano. Don Julio watched, shaking his head. “The gun cannot be fixed, my friend. It is a waste of time.”
“I know it, Bozie. All I want is to be able to shoot half a dozen bursts with it.”
“But what is your plan?”
“Plans mean nothing. We have to see what happens, and then act.” Ryan looked at his watch, still ticking in spite of its immersion. The hands showed a few minutes after eleven. “Pepe, bring me a rope – the longest one you can find.
“Bozie,” he continued, “we had friends in the hills once; not only the Indios, but there was old Almanzan and the Ruiz brothers. Each one was good for fifty men.”
“They are still our friends. If they knew you were here, and we could get word to them, they would come. But, amigo mío, you realize how utterly impossible it is for any one to leave this place.”
“Not impossible – for a very small person.” Ryan swung around to José, who sat hugging his knees and watching the work on the gun with wide eyes. “My little monkey, I have a task for you. It will take courage. If I get you safely out of the Casa, can you steal a horse somewhere and ride to the estancias of Señor Almazan and the Señores Ruiz?”
The boy sprang to his feet. “Mi capitán” he cried, “I would steal a dozen horses – I would ride to the ends of the earth if Don Colorado sent me there!”
Pepe came with a coil of rope over his shoulder. Ryan led them into the ballroom. High up on the south wall was a narrow, barred window he had studied earlier in the evening. An angle in the outer wall hid it from those watching on the lower terraces. He placed a chair upon a table beneath the opening and knotted a loop in the end of the rope. “José,” he said, “go to Almazan and to Ruiz; tell them Don Colorado is back and that he needs them. Tell them to meet at the Place of the Seven Rocks by midnight to-morrow – sooner if possible. And José, tell them that Don Colorado will be there, and that he will pay five hundred American dollars for every rifleman they bring.”
He swung José up to the chair and slipped the rope around him. The boy crawled through the cleft in the thick walls, pulled the screen aside, and squeezed into the window.
On the ledge, he turned and looked back. “To-morrow night, at the Place of the Seven Rocks. Mi capitán, José will not fail you!”
* * *
He slid from sight while Ryan slowly paid out the rope. When the rope went slack, Ryan drew it in. Don Julio’s eyes were misty. “The little gallego,” he murmured. “He is a true soldier. When it is all over, I will see that there is a statue in the plaza in his honor.”
“You got enough o’ them fool statues there now,” Ryan muttered in English. “The dog-gone place looks like a cemetery.”
“Eh?” said Don Julio.
“I said we have a machine gun to fix first – and a battle to fight.”
“And what is one more battle, hermano mío?” His excellency swung his fat arms and roared as if he were addressing a multitude. “Sangre! Muerte! Bring on your dogs, Aguilar! You have Don Colorado to fight now! Puerco! Legumbre! He will give your swine’s head to the vultures!”
Ryan grinned, then suddenly ground his teeth together and started back to the kitchen.
He knew well enough that the next forty-eight hours were going to be harder than anything he had ever seen before. Even if the machine gun could be repaired, it would stand but a few minutes’ use until the plugs blew out or the barrel exploded. Furthermore, José had a long ride ahead before he could reach Ruiz or Almazan. Granting that the boy could get there safely, it might be impossible to raise men and bring them to the meeting place in so short a time. Then, too, there was the problem of getting out of the Casa.
But it was a strange thing, the confidence Don Julio and the others had in him. With a childlike faith they looked upon Don Colorado – he of the red hair – as some species of superman, an invincible Achilles. Actually, he hadn’t done so much. At twenty he had joined a rebel army, and quite through luck and accident, he had become the head of it in a few years. He had drifted down through Yucatan, Honduras and Guatemala, finding it easy to win victories for a restless people who had grown tired of the old order of tyranny. His name had preceded him, and everywhere men had been eager to fight under him. He and Don Julio had become fast friends; more than that, they had fought and starved, and bled together – and they had taken the oath of blood brotherhood.
Ryan attacked the machine gun furiously.
IV.
Morning was a gray streak over the bay when he finished work on the gun. He mounted it on its tripod, filled the water chamber, and Renaldo helped him carry it up to the azotea – the Casa’s fiat roof overlooking the terraces. He thrust the muzzle through a niche in the parapet, training it on the narrowest point of the steps leading downward.
Showing Renaldo how to feed the belt tag into the breech pawl, he lay back and tried to sleep. The thought of the gun held him awake. At best, the repair was only a makeshift. He had ground out the holes, driven white-hot plugs into them, and bound the outside with layers of piano wire. He had tried to weld it with Louis’s battered blowtorch, but it had been far from a success. Probably, at the first shot—
Estella brought him coffee and tortillas. She looked peaked, but entirely desirable. He had an impulse to touch the smooth yellow band of her hair, but restrained himself.
“Get some sleep,” he ordered roughly. “You’ve been up all night.”
“It is not the first time I’ve been up all night and brought you food. You used to like it in the old days.”
“You were a little brat of a spitfire, then. I had to spank you to make you behave.”
“And have I changed so much?” she flashed back. “I don’t believe you’re even glad to see me again.”
“You – you’re not a little girl any longer,” he replied uncertainly.
“No, it is not that. You have met a lot of those beautiful American women! I must look very ugly by comparison!” “You’re too damn pretty for my own good,” he growled. You – Great heavens! I didn’t expect the beggars so soon!” He kicked Renaldo awake, stood up, and leaned over the parapet. Far below, at the bottom terrace, a dark line of figures were moving swiftly upward.
He pushed Estella away. “Run! Tell Bozie they are coming! Tell him to save his fire until some one reaches the door.”
Estella vanished. Ryan bent over the machine gun and jerked the bolt handle. A cartridge slid into the chamber. His finger curled under the trigger. He waited.
A minute, two minutes, and he’d know the story. If the thing didn’t work – No, it had to work. He turned the handwheel and lowered the muzzle slightly. He couldn’t afford to shoot over their heads, waste bullets.
Aguilar’s men were closer. They were running three abreast; those leading the center line carried a long timber sharpened at the end. They were going to batter down the door.
They swept up the third flight of steps, approaching the narrow turn. Ryan heard Renaldo muttering in a low, steady stream of invective. Renaldo stopped suddenly and crossed himself. “Now! Mi capitán! And may the saints be with us!"
Ryan’s trigger hand tightened. The machine gun trembled and a wild staccato of sound beat upon his ears.
On the center terrace men spun about as if a whirlwind had struck them. They dropped their rifles and fell in writhing heaps. The timber slid down the steps and came to a rest beside a twitching figure. The line behind them broke, and men fled in confusion to the protection of the lower terrace.
Ryan was tempted to send another burst after them, but stopped and studied the repair at the breech. It was a miracle that the thing hadn’t blown out. But the wire wrapping was not as tight as it had been.
* * *
Would they come again, or would they wait until night? All he wanted was time. He glanced toward the bay beyond the town and saw the sun rising over the water. Avery’s yacht rode at anchor in the center of the basin, a toy boat on a blue mirror. He wondered, suddenly, why he had ever been fool enough to fall for any one like Helen. Society stuff. He’d thought, once, that that kind of thing was the ultimate in life – to have money, to mix with the people you read about.
Funny, but he’d made money easily enough. Taken the wad he’d earned down here and bought stocks outright at a depression low. The market had climbed, of course, and with careful selling and buying he’d accumulated a pile – a large enough pile to attract the attention of columnists and the kind of people they wrote about.
Ryan spat. Not so hot, that crowd. Helen and old Avery were good examples: nice on the surface and as hard as nails underneath.
He glanced over the parapet again. As he did so, stone dust stung his face. Two seconds later he heard the crack of a rifle. Amazed, he looked at Renaldo.
“Somebody has a high-powered rifle, and he knows how to handle it. Who could that be?” Marksmanship was something he had seldom encountered in this country.
“That, mi capitán, must be the Señor Gratton. They say he can shoot the top from a bottle at a hundred paces. He is bad, that one; a thin man with eyes that look at you like a fish.”
With more caution than before, Ryan stole another look toward the town. The cypress avenue was black with figures. A tight knot of soldiers were bunched in the shadow of the lower terrace. On either side, flanking the hill, moved a company carrying ladders. They were getting ready for a second attack.
The thing was cleverly planned. The ladder companies could creep close under the protection of the rocks, and they could climb almost to the Casa door before they came within range of the machine gun. He couldn’t cover both sides at once without mounting the gun upon the parapet – and to do that would mean exposing himself to Gratton’s rifle.
Suddenly he remembered the tiny window in the upper hall above the entrance. “Renaldo,” he said, “stay here and keep your eye on the top flight of steps. When the men come over the ladders, poke your hat above the parapet here and keep it moving. I’ll pay you a hundred pesos for every hole the Señor Gratton puts in it.”
The peon grinned. “Ah, mi capitán, I would that I had a hundred hats.” He touched his machete. “And if the spatter gun fail, Renaldo will be with you by the door – and we will do much carving.”
Ryan drew the machine gun away from the niche and crawled with it through the trapdoor into the upper hall. It was a heavy thing, weighing nearly a hundred pounds with tripod and ammunition belt, but he carried it easily in one hand.
* * *
The window was small and he had trouble forcing the tripod inside. The wall here was nearly six feet through, the opening narrowing to little more than a loophole on the outside. He found he could swing the gun’s muzzle only a few inches. It was enough, though to cover either corner of the upper terrace.
He heard Estella behind him. “What’s happened?” she whispered. “Why are you here?”
He explained quickly. “Tell Bozie and the others to stand by the loophole in the door, to shoot any man that crosses toward them. And have some one bring me another feed belt.”
She was back in a minute. She brought the ammunition box herself. “Thanks, Little Star,” he said. It was a pet name he had given her years ago. Her sudden smile started a queer pounding in his temples. Impulsively, he leaned over and kissed her.
For a second her hand touched his cheek. Abruptly, she pushed him away. “Am I crazy?” she cried. “This is no time for such things. Watch the window, soldado mío.”
His blood was on fire when he turned away. He glanced down at the terrace, waited. They should be here any time now.
A head appeared over the stone balustrade outside. Another followed it, and another. Abruptly, a rifle cracked and men swarmed over the terrace. The machine gun awoke with a deadly clatter.
Ryan sent a burst to the right, a second to the right. He swung the muzzle and raked both balustrades and the space between. The gun stopped. Feverishly, he bent down over the breech. No, it was only a defective cartridge. He worked it out and pumped the bolt handle again. But before his finger could tighten under the trigger, a numbing, blinding force struck his forehead and thrust him backward,
Vaguely, he heard cries outside, the shriek of a wounded man. His head cleared slowly and he felt the cool touch of Estella’s fingers. “Oh, soldado mío, are you all right, are you hurt? There was a loose stone on the ledge. It seemed to explode in your face!”
“I’m all right,” muttered Ryan. He wiped stinging rock dust from his eyes and peered outside. Except for a half dozen figures lying grotesque and inert on the terrace, the place was clear. His trick had worked – and Gratton’s plan had failed. Gratton had spotted his location too late. That had been Gratton’s bullet, of course; smashed that loose stone.
Ryan crawled uncertainly away from the window and managed a grin. “I think we’ve stopped them for a while,” he said. “They’ll hardly try anything else until night. And there are several good rifles out on the terrace. If we can get those—”
His voice sounded far away. Estella led him to the kitchen and helped him bathe his eyes and face. His forehead was not cut badly, but it felt as if some one had struck him with a club.
“Please,” Estella urged. “You must get some sleep now. You’re hurt.”
“I'm quite all right,” he lied. He looked at her sternly. “You need sleep yourself. Off to your room – or I’ll give you one of those spankings you used to get.”
She went away meekly, turned at the door and made a face at him, and disappeared.
He started into the hall again, stumbled, and realized his head was beginning to throb with a slow agony. He called Pepe and Carlos, ordered them to keep watch on the azotea while the others rested, and went into the drawing room. He turned at a sound and saw Don Julio slumped in a chair by the door. His fat excellency was snoring peacefully, sword and pistol crossed on his lap.
Ryan tried to arrange his thoughts; there was something he had to do, had to plan. Something – He crumpled upon the divan.
* * *
He struggled slowly to consciousness as one who fought blindly through a black fog that had no ending. Then candlelight struck his eyes and he sat up, knowing evening had come. Fool! He should have been up hours ago.
The clatter of gunfire brought him to his feet and the fog in his mind vanished. He heard a crash somewhere on the outer wall. Immediately afterward came a loud, rumbling detonation as of thunder. Recognizing the sound for what it was, he tottered into the hall.
“Where’d they get that cannon, Bozie?”
Don Julio blinked up at him from a plate of sandwiches and a pot of coffee. “Your head, amigo mío; it is better?”
“To hell with the head! They’ve got a field gun down there!”
“Y-you had us much worried,” his excellency chattered on, oblivious to what was happening outside. “All morning you tumbled about and cried out like one in a fit. Estella came and held you like a sick cat and bathed your forehead until she went to sleep on her feet, and then I put her to bed. Finally you were quiet and slept, too.”
“But that field gun—”
“Ah, yes, it was an ornament in the plaza. I guess they found some powder for it somewhere, for they dragged it to the end of the avenue and they’ve been trying all afternoon to make it shoot straight. It is most ancient. Occasionally they hit the walls – but the Casa’s walls are thick, amigo mío. Of course, if they should strike the door—”
“I’ll give them a dose of that machine gun,” growled Ryan. “That gun ought to be stopped – and they’re liable to come charging up here any time now.”
Don Julio spread his hands with a helpless gesture. “I’m sorry. I – I tried to spray a little lead upon them this evening. The machine gun did nicely for a minute, then – phoof! – something happened. The breech.”
His excellency looked sorrowful, then brightened. “But we have luck. Renaldo eased open the door, crawled out upon his stomach, and brought back all the rifles on the terrace. He and Pepe and the rest are on the azotea, ready to repel all who approach.”
Ryan sat down a little dazed and fumbled for his watch. He could not concentrate upon it at once. He was thinking of Gratton – and the field gun. Gratton would manage, before long, to have the thing trained accurately upon the door. When that happened, Aguilar’s men would come swarming up the hill. At night, with the entrance smashed, no
machine gun to guard it—
His eyes focused on the watch. The hands showed half past ten.
“Quick, I’ve got to get out of here, meet Almazan and the others!”
“But – but how?”
“There’s only one way. The door.”
“But it is impossible!”
“It’s got to be done.” Ryan peered out of the loophole, then pulled a heavy desk away from the door and raised the bar. His hand was on the lock when Estella flew into the hall and thrust him aside.
“No, no! I’ll not let you do it!” She was tense, her face white. “I heard you, soldado mío. You cannot go out that way. Men are all about the hill, watching. When Renaldo went for the rifles, they shot at him.”
Ryan looked at her steadily; their eyes held. “Sorry, my dear. It has to be done.”
A low cry escaped her; suddenly she moved close to him and her arms went around his neck and clung there fiercely. There was no need for words.
Abruptly she broke away. “Go!” she whispered. “And every minute Estella will be praying that you come back to her – just as she has been praying for five years.”
Ryan caught her up and kissed her. “Don’t worry, Little Star. I’ll be back, and I’ll bring our friend Aguilar’s scalp.”
He set her down, unlocked the door, and slid quickly outside.
V.
Within the shadow of the pillars on either side of the door, Ryan dropped flat and crawled on his stomach along one corner of the terrace. The thought of Estella was beating in his brain like a mad toxin, crowding out the ache in his forehead and sharpening his senses to a keener pitch than ever before. Suddenly he knew he was afraid, afraid for the first time in his life. He had known fear often, but it was nothing like this. Now he wanted desperately to live, to come back and whisper a thousand things to that small, delicate ear that had been pressed so close to him, all too briefly. Behind him lay a promise to life’s fulfillment; ahead, probably, lay death.
A few years ago – a few hours ago – Ryan would have run laughing down the flights of steps, taking his chances with the poor marksmanship of the guards, and his very audacity might have carried him through. Now, instead, he crawled cautiously along the balustrade. Squirming past a sprawled body lying in his path, he reached the outer edge of the terrace and stopped.
He studied the hill. No one had seen him yet. There was no moon to-night, but the stars were bright and he could make out the cypress avenue plainly. Men were down there in the shadows, but he could distinguish no movement. Abruptly, a red flash lighted the trees; the field gun spoke again. He felt the disturbance of air over his head and heard the ball whack into stone behind him. Not far from the door, that one.
Fear cut into him again like a knife. He realized the necessity for haste. It might be two hours before he could return with Almazan and the Ruiz brothers – granting José had reached them safely.
He shot a glance over the edge of the terrace and hope leaped within him. Protruding behind a flange of rock was one of the ladders that had been used that morning. He reached it, saw that no one was near, and went sliding down it in an instant.
At the bottom he struck loose gravel and rolled to the foot of a long incline between masses of boulders. Somewhere in the distance a rifle cracked; other shots followed it and he heard a shout. They had seen him.
He ran for the shrubbery of the lower slope, almost reached it, and flame stabbed the shadows just ahead. Dark forms hurtled from the rocks on either side.
Ryan cursed; his left fist streaked forth and smashed a uniformed figure into a heap. His right crashed into a jaw and went through. There was no time to draw his pistol. He kicked, struck again, ducked beneath the whirling arc of a rifle butt, and lunged like an exploded shell into a struggling line trying to block his path.
Soldiers closed upon him from all directions, and he heard more coming. He saw in a flash that Aguilar had been massing some of his men under the hill, hiding them in the shadows of the rocks, ready for a surprise assault the instant a lucky shot forced the door.
Ryan’s hands caught up a rifle. He flailed it about him, roaring curses, shouting taunts in a wild surge of anger and lust for fight. “Think you can stop me, you dogs!” he yelled. “Look at me – know who I am?”
He opened a way before him; men fell aside at the sound of his voice. A light flared; a man shrieked his name and fled. And suddenly Ryan was past the line and running for the cover of low jungle growth surrounding the well.
His trick had worked. But in a minute, he knew, they would get over their surprise and come after him. He was one, and they were many. Already he could hear an officer barking orders. His breath came laboriously; his head throbbed again and he stumbled. But now he was swallowed in the cool darkness of ferns and crowding trees. He stopped, gained his breath, and went on slowly.
There were shots and cries behind him; they reached his ears dimly, muffled sounds that seemed far away and without meaning. What was the matter with him? He slipped, rolled down under a cluster of ferns, and lay still.
* * *
The quick thud of hurrying footsteps aroused him. He fought back through a whirling blackness to a degree of reality, dragged himself deeper into the ferns, and flattened there. The footsteps passed him.
Ryan sought to rise, found that something was wrong with his left arm and shoulder. His exploring fingers touched blood, a small hole high near the point of his shoulder. Not bad, just a nick in the flesh. It was his head that bothered him.
He got to his feet and tottered onward. He had to go somewhere, meet some one. It was important, though just why, he could not at first remember. Almazan, Ruiz, was that it? The Place of the Seven Rocks.
Then the thought of Estella whipped him awake as if an icicle had been driven into his brain. He ran, reached the path he had taken the evening before, and raced down it until he came to a fork curving away from town.
The Place of the Seven Rocks. That lay to the west, a mile or more away on the burro trail leading into the hills. The cannon roared again, far back of him; the sound helped him gauge his location. He passed the jungle growth and entered a hollow where an ancient stone bridge crossed a stream.
He wondered if he could find a horse somewhere. A horse would save time, and he ought to have a horse anyway. Somehow, no one would expect Don Colorado to arrive like a sweating peon under his own powers of locomotion. They ought to know better, of course, but people here lived among ideals and loftily ignored actualities. Don Colorado, savior of San Angelo and revolutionist extraordinary, belonged on a horse, usually the biggest animal the country afforded.
Ryan grinned, took the bridge in three strides, and stopped. In the shadows ahead was what he wanted. Two horses, in fact. His pistol leaped into his hand and he bounded across the road.
* * *
He stopped again, stared.
A boyish voice cried out. “Mi capitán! José awaits! He has a fine animal for you, that will take you quickly to the Señores Almazan and Ruiz!”
Ryan swung into the saddle. “You little devil,” he said to José, “tomorrow I’ll fill your hat with silver. How did you do it?”
“Easily, mi capitán. They are from the stables of General Aguilar, and yours is the finest palomino in the country. No one was about, so I took them. The Señores Almazan and Ruiz said they would hurry with men to the Place of the Seven Rocks, so I rode quickly ahead to meet you. I knew Don Colorado would need a horse.”
“You are husky, little monkey. What has happened to your voice?”
“I have done much shouting, mi capitán.” As they galloped along the burro trail, José pointed, and he was near to bursting with pride. “See, there are the first ones! I told them you had come again, and that you needed them. The word has spread. I had but to shout your name at the dwelling of every patriot I passed.”
There was a cry ahead and Ryan waved his hand. Mounted men fell in behind them. At every fork in the trail, every arroyo and wayside shrine or hovel, there were more cries of greeting and more men joined the cavalcade.
Long before they came to the cleft in the hill where the seven large boulders marked a spring, Ryan had a small army at his heels. And when he dipped down toward the spring, he found the place crowded. He had expected nothing like this. Evidently Bozie had kept the thought of Don Colorado very much alive during the past five years.
A great shout went up as he approached; men pressed around him. Old Almazan, a lined and weathered mummy of a man, galloped through the throng and clasped him like a brother. The two swarthy, stocky members of the house of Ruiz tossed their sombreros into the air and kissed him on either cheek.
“You do not need to offer money,” said Almazan. “There is reward enough in riding with you again.”
It was but a gesture, and Ryan knew it. These men, every one of them, were poor, and their living came hard. They would have come without the offer, yes – but they would have been disappointed if the path of glory had not been paved with silver.
“All patriots deserve reward,” he called out – and it was the voice of Don Colorado that spoke now. “Five hundred American dollars for every patriot here. But we must hurry, my compañeros. Even now they storm the Casa! Adelante! Let us go!”
With a thunder of hoofs, they galloped toward the town. Men on mule-back and burro, men on horses, ragged peons running on foot. With the sting of dust and sweat and saddle leather in his nostrils, the sound of happy profanity, the clink and rattle of machete and rifle and jangle of spurs, Ryan’s pulses leaped as from a wild elixir. All this was an anodyne to the pain that had racked his head and burned through his arm. For an hour or more, he would be the Don Colorado of old.
* * *
Their ranks swelled as they rode onward, and as they entered the town, doors opened and more men poured forth to join them. The news had spread, had been spreading for hours. Ryan’s hard lips cracked with amusement. This would cost him a cool quarter of a million before the night was over. Well, it was worth it. Bozie and Estella were worth it a hundred times over.
He could hear firing ahead, rapid firing. His jaws clenched and his face went bleak. Had he come in time, or had Aguilar and Gratton already forced the Casa door? He shouted an order, whipped the reins across the palomino’s flank, and whirled into the avenue of cypresses. Behind him the others spread out, sweeping the avenue and the walk in a thundering phalanx of riders. Farther behind, running, came those on foot. They were screaming an old battle cry: “Al machete! Al machete! – to the knife!”
High and gray against the starlight he could see the Casa. The steps were packed with silhouetted figures hurtling upward. The door had been smashed. In the black rectangle of it he could see swirling movement and white stabs of flame.
He barked at one of the Ruiz brothers, and a segment of the phalanx turned off in a flanking rush toward the plaza and the cuartel. With Almazan beside him, he rode straight toward the crowded lower terrace.
For a moment rifles spoke in their faces, then pandemonium followed. There was no firing now, for there was no room for it. The terrace became a mass of screaming, cursing men and plunging horses. Machete clashed upon sword blade and uniformed figures went down beneath the pounding hoofs. A sword curved toward Ryan; he lunged aside, caught the arm that held it, and jerked the weapon free.
Almazan was beside him. They slashed their way through the press of bodies and clattered up the steps. Those ahead fought furiously, not to stop them, but to escape. Some were cut down or trampled to death, and others were forced over the edge of the terraces. The surprise was complete.
Gaining the open Casa door, Ryan leaped from the saddle and raced inside. Almazan’s men poured after him. “Bozie!” Ryan yelled., “Where are you? Estella—”
* * *
The hall near the entrance was strewn with bodies in uniform. From the library came cries, the clash of steel on steel. Ryan whirled toward the sound. On the threshold of the room he ran into Estella.
Her white linen dress was torn; her hair fell in a yellow cloud over her shoulders. A small smear of blood was on her cheek. She carried a rifle.
He caught his arm about her, and questions tumbled from his lips. “Where’s Bozie? The others? Did you manage—”
He was interrupted by the fury of sound across the room. “Hola!” his excellency cried. “You have come just in time, Don Colorado! Watch me skewer the pig!”
In the center of the dim, candle-lighted room, Don Julio Rafael Córdovez de Alfaro y Boz, most distinctive of San Angelo’s presidents, was putting on a remarkable exhibition of swordsmanship. His opponent was a bull-necked gentleman whose resplendent uniform was somewhat marred by blood and various cuts. He was a big man, much larger than the fat little president, but at the moment his size was most assuredly not in his favor.
“Behold the dog Aguilar!” yelled his excellency. “Five minutes ago he would storm the Casa, but he found the door well guarded! And then Don Colorado came raging up the hill like an avenging thunderbolt – and the dog Aguilar burst past us as if the hounds of hell pursued him! Puerco! Legumbre! Filth of vermin! I will cut you in little pieces!”
His excellency’s sword flickered past the other’s guard and severed an epaulet. It flickered again, and the other epaulet went flying. “Behold the dog Aguilar !” cried his excellency again. “I will strip him slowly and then show you the swine’s heart of him!”
Men crowded into the room, staring at the amazing spectacle. Old Pepe, a blood-soaked bandage on his head, crouched to one side, smiling grimly and thumping his rifle with each quick stroke of his master’s weapon. Old Pepe knew his excellency’s every mood, and there was nothing more delightful to watch than when his excellency was extracting vengeance.
Black hate, and fear of death, showed in Aguilar’s narrow, evil eyes. Under his excellency’s taunts he suddenly lost all control of himself and lunged forward with his sword slashing wildly.
“Muerte!” shrieked his excellency, and, dropping abruptly to his heels, shot forward like a bullet. Aguilar staggered backward and crumpled. Every one could see that a slim sword was buried to the hilt in his chest.
“Bravo!” Ryan shouted. Then, at a commotion in the hall, he turned. "Mi capitan,” spoke one of the Ruiz brothers, “the town is ours; the fighting is over. We had difficulty finding men to fight, for when they heard your name they ran away with great haste. But here are two prisoners whom we captured in the cuartel. They are Americanos. What shall we do with them?”
* * *
Ryan blinked at the two frightened, bedraggled figures pushed toward him, and grinned.
“Well, Avery, you ole coot,” he drawled. “Durned if you ain’t a sight! What are you doing ashore?”
Avery wet his lips. He had difficulty finding words. “B-Bill,” he sputtered finally. “Y-you’ve got to get me out of this!”
“Answer my question,” growled Ryan. “What are you doing ashore?”
“I – I thought the trouble was over. I came to arrange about the money.”
“So you brought the cash on the ship, eh?”
“See here, Ryan,” Avery managed to speak belligerently, “just what—”
“Shut up!” Ryan turned away from him and caught the second man by the throat. He jerked him forward. “You must be Gratton; they said you had fish eyes. They also said you were a bad hombre, but you sure as hell don’t look it now.” He whirled the pale fellow around and kicked him into the hall.
“Send a boarding party with him to the ship, Ruiz,” he said. “The tough Señor Gratton will be glad to deliver a great deal of money to you. When you have it, then you can let both men go.”
Ruiz winked, laughed, and his men led Gratton away.
Avery’s face purpled. “Just what’s the meaning of this robbery?” he burst out.
“Robbery?” Ryan spoke softly. “Robbery? You’re the buzzard that started all this trouble – and you’re sure as hell going to pay for it!” He jerked his head. “Take him outside, compañeros, before I push his face in – and hold him till the money comes.”
Suddenly he felt very tired; he wanted to get away from the noise and press of men about him. He looked down and smiled into Estella’s eyes. She was clinging tightly to his arm.
No, he wasn’t too tired for one thing. He picked her up lightly and strode with her to the balcony that overlooked the well. They could be alone there, and he had a great deal to say.
1937
(Top-Notch, vol. C (100), #3, March, pp.52-72)
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