“Oh, José come to buy coffee and tobacco,” he replied. He looked about searchingly. “Where are the others?” he asked, “—the gringos?”
“They have ridden after Esteban,” explained one of the vaqueros. “He has run off with Señorita Harding.”
José raised his eyebrows as though this was all news.
“And Señor Grayson has gone with them?” he asked. “He was very fond of the señorita.”
“Señor Grayson has run away,” went on the other speaker. “The other gringos wished to hang him, for it is said he has bribed Esteban to do this thing.”
Again José raised his eyebrows. “Impossible!” he ejaculated. “And who then guards the ranch?” he asked presently.
“Señor Harding, two Mexican house servants, and a Chinaman,” and the vaquero laughed.
“I must be going,” José announced after a moment. “It is a long ride for an old man from my poor home to Cuivaca, and back again.”
The vaqueros were paying no further attention to him, and the Indian passed out and sought his pony; but when he had mounted and ridden from town he took a strange direction for one whose path lies to the east, since he turned his pony’s head toward the northwest.
José had ridden far that day, since Billy had left his humble hut. He had gone to the west to the little rancho of one of Pesita’s adherents who had dispatched a boy to carry word to the bandit that his Captain Byrne had escaped the Villistas, and then José had ridden into Cuivaca by a circuitous route which brought him up from the east side of the town.
Now he was riding once again for Pesita; but this time he would bear the information himself. He found the chief in camp and after begging tobacco and a cigarette paper the Indian finally reached the purpose of his visit.
“José has just come from Cuivaca,” he said, “and there he drank with all the Mexican vaqueros of El Orobo Rancho—all, my general, you understand. It seems that Esteban has carried off the beautiful señorita of El Orobo Rancho, and the vaqueros tell José that all the American vaqueros have ridden in search of her—all, my general, you understand. In such times of danger it is odd that the gringos should leave El Orobo thus unguarded. Only the rich Señor Harding, two house servants, and a Chinaman remain.”
A man lay stretched upon his blankets in a tent next to that occupied by Pesita. At the sound of the speaker’s voice, low though it was, he raised his head and listened. He heard every word, and a scowl settled upon his brow. Barbara stolen! Mr. Harding practically alone upon the ranch! And Pesita in possession of this information!
Bridge rose to his feet. He buckled his cartridge belt about his waist and picked up his carbine, then he crawled under the rear wall of his tent and walked slowly off in the direction of the picket line where the horses were tethered.
“Ah, Señor Bridge,” said a pleasant voice in his ear; “where to?”
Bridge turned quickly to look into the smiling, evil face of Rozales.
“Oh,” he replied, “I’m going out to see if I can’t find some shooting. It’s awfully dull sitting around here doing nothing.”
“Si, señor,” agreed Rozales; “I, too, find it so. Let us go together—I know where the shooting is best.”
“I don’t doubt it,” thought Bridge; “probably in the back;” but aloud he said: “Certainly, that will be fine,” for he guessed that Rozales had been set to watch his movements and prevent his escape, and, perchance, to be the sole witness of some unhappy event which should carry Señor Bridge to the arms of his fathers.
Rozales called a soldier to saddle and bridle their horses and shortly after the two were riding abreast down the trail out of the hills. Where it was necessary that they ride in single file Bridge was careful to see that Rozales rode ahead, and the Mexican graciously permitted the American to fall behind.
If he was inspired by any other motive than simple espionage he was evidently content to bide his time until chance gave him the opening he desired, and it was equally evident that he felt as safe in front of the American as behind him.
At a point where a ravine down which they had ridden debauched upon a mesa Rozales suggested that they ride to the north, which was not at all the direction in which Bridge intended going. The American demurred.
“But there is no shooting down in the valley,” urged Rozales.
“I think there will be,” was Bridge’s enigmatical reply, and then, with a sudden exclamation of surprise he pointed over Rozales’ shoulder. “What’s that?” he cried in a voice tense with excitement.
The Mexican turned his head quickly in the direction Bridge’s index finger indicated.
“I see nothing,” said Rozales, after a moment.
“You do now, though,” replied Bridge, and as the Mexican’s eyes returned in the direction of his companion he was forced to admit that he did see something—the dismal, hollow eye of a six-shooter looking him straight in the face.
“Señor Bridge!” exclaimed Rozales. “What are you doing? What do you mean?”
“I mean,” said Bridge, “that if you are at all solicitous of your health you’ll climb down off that pony, not forgetting to keep your hands above your head when you reach the ground. Now climb!”
Rozales dismounted.
“Turn your back toward me,” commanded the American, and when the other had obeyed him, Bridge dismounted and removed the man’s weapons from his belt. “Now you may go, Rozales,” he said, “and should you ever have an American in your power again remember that I spared your life when I might easily have taken it—when it would have been infinitely safer for me to have done it.”
The Mexican made no reply, but the black scowl that clouded his face boded ill for the next
