“Is the team going towards Guadalajara?” enquired Garnett, getting up and coming to the door.
“Yes, it’s a Portuguese, one of the garden truck men.”
“We must turn him back,” declared Osterman. “He can’t go through here. We don’t want him to take any news on to the marshal and S. Behrman.”
“I’ll turn him back,” said Presley.
He rode out towards the market cart, and the others, watching from the road in front of Hooven’s, saw him halt it. An excited interview followed. They could hear the Portuguese expostulating volubly, but in the end he turned back.
“Martial law on Los Muertos, isn’t it?” observed Osterman. “Steady all,” he exclaimed as he turned about, “here comes Harran.”
Harran rode up at a gallop. The others surrounded him.
“I saw them,” he cried. “They are coming this way. S. Behrman and Ruggles are in a two-horse buggy. All the others are on horseback. There are eleven of them. Christian and Delaney are with them. Those two have rifles. I left Hooven watching them.”
“Better call in Gethings and Cutter right away,” said Annixter. “We’ll need all our men.”
“I’ll call them in,” Presley volunteered at once. “Can I have the buckskin? My pony is about done up.”
He departed at a brisk gallop, but on the way met Gethings and Cutter returning. They, too, from their elevated position, had observed the marshal’s party leaving Guadalajara by the Lower Road. Presley told them of the decision of the Leaguers not to fire until fired upon.
“All right,” said Gethings. “But if it comes to a gunfight, that means it’s all up with at least one of us. Delaney never misses his man.”
When they reached Hooven’s again, they found that the Leaguers had already taken their position in the ditch. The plank bridge across it had been torn up. Magnus, two long revolvers lying on the embankment in front of him, was in the middle, Harran at his side. On either side, some five feet intervening between each man, stood the other Leaguers, their revolvers ready. Dabney, the silent old man, had taken off his coat.
“Take your places between Mr. Osterman and Mr. Broderson,” said Magnus, as the three men rode up. “Presley,” he added, “I forbid you to take any part in this affair.”
“Yes, keep him out of it,” cried Annixter from his position at the extreme end of the line. “Go back to Hooven’s house, Pres, and look after the horses,” he added. “This is no business of yours. And keep the road behind us clear. Don’t let anyone come near, not anyone, understand?”
Presley withdrew, leading the buckskin and the horses that Gethings and Cutter had ridden. He fastened them under the great live oak and then came out and stood in the road in front of the house to watch what was going on.
In the ditch, shoulder deep, the Leaguers, ready, watchful, waited in silence, their eyes fixed on the white shimmer of the road leading to Guadalajara.
“Where’s Hooven?” enquired Cutter.
“I don’t know,” Osterman replied. “He was out watching the Lower Road with Harran Derrick. Oh, Harran,” he called, “isn’t Hooven coming in?”
“I don’t know what he is waiting for,” answered Harran. “He was to have come in just after me. He thought maybe the marshal’s party might make a feint in this direction, then go around by the Upper Road, after all. He wanted to watch them a little longer. But he ought to be here now.”
“Think he’ll take a shot at them on his own account?”
“Oh, no, he wouldn’t do that.”
“Maybe they took him prisoner.”
“Well, that’s to be thought of, too.”
Suddenly there was a cry. Around the bend of the road in front of them came a cloud of dust. From it emerged a horse’s head.
“Hello, hello, there’s something.”
“Remember, we are not to fire first.”
“Perhaps that’s Hooven; I can’t see. Is it? There only seems to be one horse.”
“Too much dust for one horse.”
Annixter, who had taken his field glasses from Harran, adjusted them to his eyes.
“That’s not them,” he announced presently, “nor Hooven either. That’s a cart.” Then after another moment, he added, “The butcher’s cart from Guadalajara.”
The tension was relaxed. The men drew long breaths, settling back in their places.
“Do we let him go on, Governor?”
“The bridge is down. He can’t go by and we must not let him go back. We shall have to detain him and question him. I wonder the marshal let him pass.”
The cart approached at a lively trot.
“Anybody else in that cart, Mr. Annixter?” asked Magnus. “Look carefully. It may be a ruse. It is strange the marshal should have let him pass.”
The Leaguers roused themselves again. Osterman laid his hand on his revolver.
“No,” called Annixter, in another instant, “no, there’s only one man in it.”
The cart came up, and Cutter and Phelps, clambering from the ditch, stopped it as it arrived in front of the party.
“Hey—what—what?” exclaimed the young butcher, pulling up. “Is that bridge broke?”
But at the idea of being held, the boy protested at top voice, badly frightened, bewildered, not knowing what was to happen next.
“No, no, I got my meat to deliver. Say, you let me go. Say, I ain’t got nothing to do with you.”
He tugged at the reins, trying to turn the cart about. Cutter, with his jackknife, parted the reins just back of the bit.
“You’ll stay where you are, m’son, for a while. We’re not going to hurt you. But you are not going back to town till we say so. Did you pass anybody on the road out of town?”
In reply to the Leaguers’ questions, the young butcher at last told them he had passed a two-horse buggy and a lot of men on horseback just beyond the railroad tracks. They were headed for Los Muertos.
“That’s them, all right,” muttered Annixter. “They’re coming by this road, sure.”
The butcher’s horse and cart were led to one side of the road, and the horse tied to the fence with one of the severed lines. The butcher, himself, was passed over to Presley,
