held a pistol and a heavy whip, the cat-o'-nine-tails which is used aboard ship.
Behind him in the doorway were two men with guns.
'It is the end,' he said. 'I shall wait no longer. Tonight you will tell me, for if you do not, these'
--he held up the whip--?w take out your eyes.'
The cat hung from his hand by its stubby wooden handle, and from its end dangled nine strips of rawhide, each with a tip wrapped in wire. It was a whip that could cut a man to ribbons, or bite at his eyes, cutting them from his head in a bloody mess.
And in that moment I knew that I could no longer wait. I must kill him and be killed.
He moved toward me, and I remained where I was, crouched in the corner with one heel braced against the wall, ready to lunge at him. My thick forearms rested upon my knees, and I waited, watching him like the cornered animal I had become.
We were at a smaller ranch, half a mile from Las Cuevas, the headquarters of Flores. It was November 19, 1875. The date is one I shall never forget.
A mistake was made that night, and upon such mistakes do men's lives depend; by such mistakes are men's lives lost--or saved.
Outside my cell, beyond the walls about the ranch, beyond the border even, events had marched forward, and tonight men rode in darkness, moving along the cactus-lined trails.
As Herrara came toward me, he had his pistol ready, for he was a clever man and knew what must be in my mind. The whip was poised for a blow, but I was hard to get at, for the corner was a partial protection.
My tongue went to my lips. Within me burned a kind of cold fury, welling up from the deep hatreds that had grown within me, until nothing mattered but my hands upon his throat.
He would strike me. His bullet would tear into my flesh, and perhaps the bullets of those others in the doorway, but my hands must reach his throat.
These hands that only a day or so before had bent and twisted an iron horseshoe--^the hands must reach that throat and lock there. Surely, I would be killed, but surely I should kill him first.
He flipped the whip at me, but I did not move. He lifted the whip to strike downward, and he brought it down hard over my head and shoulders, but still I did not move. Suddenly his own anger burst within him, the hatred of me because I kept him from the wealth he wanted and the position it would buy, the hatred of me for holding out so long against him.
His lips curled from his teeth and the whip drew back for a mighty blow at my face. Those wire-twisted whipends would tear at my eyes.
His own hatred had mastered him--I saw it in his face.
Suddenly, from outside there was a crash of gunfire, the race of pounding hoofs, shrill Texas yells.
The men at the door wheeled and ran toward the court. Even Herrara was caught, gripped by shock in the middle of his blow. And in that instant I leaped.
My left hand gripped the gun-wrist, my right seized his throat, not a grip around the neck, but the far more deadly grip of the Adam's apple and the throat itself.
His gun exploded, but the muzzle had been turned aside, and the roar was lost in the concussions of the shots outside. I smashed him back bodily against the stone wall with stunning force. My right hand gripping his throat held him on tip-toes against the stone, and my other hand gripping his gun-wrist ground his knuckles against the roughness of the stone wall.
Brutally, I ground the flesh against the stone, rasping it back and forth until he struggled to scream and his fingers could no longer grip the gun.
I released my hold upon his throat and stepped back. He struck weakly at me with the cat, but then, my feet wide, I hit with my left fist, then with my right, rolling my shoulders for the power it gave. One fist struck his ribs, crushing them; the other his face.
His head bounced against the wall, and glassy-eyed he started to fall toward me. I struck him again, and when he fell forward that time I knew that he was dead.
Quickly, I stripped off his gun belt and picked his pistol from the floor.
The passage outside the door was empty, and I ran along it, turned down another, and was in the living quarters of the ranch house. A door stood open, as it had been left when the shooting called the men out, and I smashed through it.
The room was empty and still. My footsteps padded on the bare floor as I crossed to the gun case. Picking up a chair with one hand, I swung it and smashed the glass. I reached in for a shotgun and filled my pockets with shells.
A Henry rifle was there, and I took that also, and two belts of cartridges that hung from a chair. And then as I turned away I saw a familiar sight. In the corner of the gun cabinet was my old Walch Navy .36 with the initials C. B. scratched on it. Quickly, I took it up and thrust it into my waistband with another pistol that lay there.
No one appeared in the passage as I ran, and I went through the door to the long veranda outside.
There I stopped in the shadows.
Mounted men were racing back and forth, and the red lances of gunfire stabbed the darkness. A Texas yell broke out, and a shot caught a Mexican upon a balcony. He fell head-long from it and landed nearby. The rider wheeled his horse, and in that instant he saw me.
The pistol swung at me to fire and I shouted, 'ationo! I'm an American!'
He held his pistol on me. 'Who are you?'
His voice rang with authority.
'A prisoner. They've held me six years.'
'Six years?'
A horse was tied to the hitch-rail and he jerked loose the tie-rope. Heavier firing sounded outside the court. 'Come! And be quick!'
He raced from the court to where other Texas riders were milling. 'Wrong place!' A man shouted at the rider beside me. 'Flores' place is half a mile up the road!'
'There are two hundred men there!' I yelled at them.
The man beside me said, 'Let's go!' And he led the racing retreat at a dead run down the valley.
After a mile or two they slowed to a canter, then to a walk. I glanced at the stars, and there was the North Star, beckoning us on.
'They'll be after us,' the man beside me said, and there was no time for questions.
Closely we rode on, and fast, for the Rio Grande lay miles to the north. The night was cool, and the air fresh on my face. Sometimes when we passed close to a rock face we could feel the heat still held from the day's hot sun.
We slowed to a walk again, and the man I rode beside turned in his saddle and looked at me.
'Six years, you say?'
As briefly as possible, I explained. Not about the gold, exactly, but enough to let him know they had wanted to learn a secret I alone knew.
When I mentioned Herrara, he nodded grimly.
'He's one I'd like to find myself.'
'Do not waste your time,' I said. 'From now on you need pay him no mind.'
He glanced at me and I said, 'He was using a whip on me when you came shooting into the patio, and his men rushed away.'
'He is dead, you think?'
'He is dead. Without a doubt, he is dead.'
'My name is Mcationelly,' the rider said then.
'These are Texas Rangers.'
Thirty of them had crossed the river to strike a blow at the outlaws who were raiding ranches and stealing cattle north of the border--and sometimes south of it, as well.
Las Cuevas had long been the outlaws' headquarters, and it was Las Cuevas for which the Rangers had aimed. But mistakenly they were led to a ranch that belonged to the Las Cuevas owner, only a short distance away from the main ranch buildings. It was that mistake that had saved my life.
At the Rio Grande the riders turned on command. The outlaws were not far behind. 'You, Sackett,' the
