The Return of the Mucker - Edgar Rice Burroughs (my miracle luna book free read .TXT) 📗
- Author: Edgar Rice Burroughs
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Miguel had pricked up his ears at the sound of the word ESCORT. He leaned far forward, closer to the two Americans, and whispered.
“Who is to command the escort?” he asked.
“I dunno,” said Billy. “What difference does it make?”
“It makes all the difference between life and death for your friend and for me,” said Miguel. “There is no reason why I should need an escort. I know my way throughout all Chihuahua as well as Pesita or any of his cutthroats. I have come and gone all my life without an escort. Of course your friend is different. It might be well for him to have company to El Orobo. Maybe it is all right; but wait until we learn who commands the escort. I know Pesita well. I know his methods. If Rozales rides out with us tomorrow morning you may say goodbye to your friend forever, for you will never see him in Rio, or elsewhere. He and I will be dead before ten o’clock.”
“What makes you think that, bo?” demanded Billy.
“I do not think, senor,” replied Miguel; “I know.”
“Well,” said Billy, “we’ll wait and see.”
“If it is Rozales, say nothing,” said Miguel. “It will do no good; but we may then be on the watch, and if possible you might find the means to obtain a couple of revolvers for us. In which case—” he shrugged and permitted a faint smile to flex his lips.
As they talked a soldier came and announced that they were no longer prisoners—they were to have the freedom of the camp; “but,” he concluded, “the general requests that you do not pass beyond the limits of the camp. There are many desperadoes in the hills and he fears for your safety, now that you are his guests.”
The man spoke Spanish, so that it was necessary that Bridge interpret his words for the benefit of Billy, who had understood only part of what he said.
“Ask him,” said Byrne, “if that stuff goes for me, too.”
“He says no,” replied Bridge after questioning the soldier, “that the captain is now one of them, and may go and come as do the other officers. Such are Pesita’s orders.”
Billy arose. The messenger had returned to his post at headquarters. The guard had withdrawn, leaving the three men alone.
“So long, old man,” said Billy. “If I’m goin’ to be of any help to you and Mig the less I’m seen with you the better. I’ll blow over and mix with the Dago bunch, an’ practice sittin’ on my heels. It seems to be the right dope down here, an’ I got to learn all I can about bein’ a greaser seein’ that I’ve turned one.”
“Goodbye Billy, remember Rio,” said Bridge.
“And the revolvers, senor,” added Miguel.
“You bet,” replied Billy, and strolled off in the direction of the little circle of cigarette smokers.
As he approached them Rozales looked up and smiled. Then, rising, extended his hand.
“Senor Captain,” he said, “we welcome you. I am Captain Rozales.” He hesitated waiting for Billy to give his name.
“My monacker’s Byrne,” said Billy. “Pleased to meet you, Cap.”
“Ah, Captain Byrne,” and Rozales proceeded to introduce the newcomer to his fellow-officers.
Several, like Rozales, were educated men who had been officers in the army under former regimes, but had turned bandit as the safer alternative to suffering immediate death at the hands of the faction then in power. The others, for the most part, were pure-blooded Indians whose adult lives had been spent in outlawry and brigandage. All were small of stature beside the giant, Byrne. Rozales and two others spoke English. With those Billy conversed. He tried to learn from them the name of the officer who was to command the escort that was to accompany Bridge and Miguel into the valley on the morrow; but Rozales and the others assured him that they did not know.
When he had asked the question Billy had been looking straight at Rozales, and he had seen the man’s pupils contract and noticed the slight backward movement of the body which also denotes determination. Billy knew, therefore, that Rozales was lying. He did know who was to command the escort, and there was something sinister in that knowledge or the fellow would not have denied it.
The American began to consider plans for saving his friend from the fate which Pesita had outlined for him. Rozales, too, was thinking rapidly. He was no fool. Why had the stranger desired to know who was to command the escort? He knew none of the officers personally. What difference then, did it make to him who rode out on the morrow with his friend? Ah, but Miguel knew that it would make a difference. Miguel had spoken to the new captain, and aroused his suspicions.
Rozales excused himself and rose. A moment later he was in conversation with Pesita, unburdening himself of his suspicions, and outlining a plan.
“Do not send me in charge of the escort,” he advised. “Send Captain Byrne himself.”
Pesita pooh-poohed the idea.
“But wait,” urged Rozales. “Let the stranger ride in command, with a half-dozen picked men who will see that nothing goes wrong. An hour before dawn I will send two men—they will be our best shots—on ahead. They will stop at a place we both know, and about noon the Captain Byrne and his escort will ride back to camp and tell us that they were attacked by a troop of Villa’s men, and that both our guests were killed. It will be sad; but it will not be our fault. We will swear vengeance upon Villa, and the Captain Byrne will hate him as a good Pesitista should.”
“You have the cunning of the Coyote, my captain,” cried Pesita. “It shall be done as you suggest. Go now, and I will send for Captain Byrne, and give him his orders for the morning.”
As Rozales strolled away a figure rose from the shadows at the side of Pesita’s tent and slunk off into the darkness.
AND so it was that having breakfasted in the morning Bridge and Miguel started downward toward the valley protected by an escort under Captain Billy Byrne. An old service jacket and a wide-brimmed hat, both donated by brother officers, constituted Captain Byrne’s uniform. His mount was the largest that the picket line of Pesita’s forces could produce. Billy loomed large amongst his men.
For an hour they rode along the trail, Billy and Bridge conversing upon various subjects, none of which touched upon the one uppermost in the mind of each. Miguel rode, silent and preoccupied. The evening before he had whispered something to Bridge as he had crawled out of the darkness to lie close to the American, and during a brief moment that morning Bridge had found an opportunity to relay the Mexican’s message to Billy Byrne.
The latter had but raised his eyebrows a trifle at the time, but later he smiled more than was usual with him. Something seemed to please him immensely.
Beside him at the head of the column rode Bridge and Miguel. Behind them trailed the six swarthy little troopers— the picked men upon whom Pesita could depend.
They had reached a point where the trail passes through a narrow dry arroyo which the waters of the rainy season had cut deep into the soft, powdery soil. Upon either bank grew cacti and mesquite, forming a sheltering screen behind which a regiment might have hidden. The place was ideal for an ambuscade.
“Here, Senor Capitan,” whispered Miguel, as they neared the entrance to the trap.
A low hill shut off from their view all but the head of the cut, and it also hid them from the sight of any possible enemy which might have been lurking in wait for them farther down the arroyo.
At Miguel’s words Byrne wheeled his horse to the right away from the trail which led through the bottom of the waterway and around the base of the hill, or rather in that direction, for he had scarce deviated from the direct way before one of the troopers spurred to his side, calling out in Spanish that he was upon the wrong trail.
“Wot’s this guy chewin’ about?” asked Billy, turning to Miguel.
“He says you must keep to the arroyo, Senor Capitan,” explained the Mexican.
“Tell him to go back into his stall,” was Byrne’s laconic rejoinder, as he pushed his mount forward to pass the brigand.
The soldier was voluble in his objections. Again he reined in front of Billy, and by this time his five fellows had spurred forward to block the way.
“This is the wrong trail,” they cried. “Come this other way, Capitan. Pesita has so ordered it.”
Catching the drift of their remarks, Billy waved them to one side.
“I’m bossin’ this picnic,” he announced. “Get out o’ the way, an’ be quick about it if you don’t want to be hurted.”
Again he rode forward. Again the troopers interposed their mounts, and this time their leader cocked his carbine. His attitude was menacing. Billy was close to him. Their ponies were shoulder to shoulder, that of the bandit almost broadside of the trail.
Now Billy Byrne was more than passing well acquainted with many of the fundamental principles of sudden brawls. It is safe to say that he had never heard of Van Bibber; but he knew, as well as Van Bibber knew, that it is well to hit first.
Without a word and without warning he struck, leaning forward with all the weight of his body behind his blow, and catching the man full beneath the chin he lifted him as neatly from his saddle as though a battering ram had struck him.
Simultaneously Bridge and Miguel drew revolvers from their shirts and as Billy wheeled his pony toward the remaining five they opened fire upon them.
The battle was short and sweet. One almost escaped but Miguel, who proved to be an excellent revolver shot, brought him down at a hundred yards. He then, with utter disregard for the rules of civilized warfare, dispatched those who were not already dead.
“We must let none return to carry false tales to Pesita,” he explained.
Even Billy Byrne winced at the ruthlessness of the cold-blooded murders; but he realized the necessity which confronted them though he could not have brought himself to do the things which the Mexican did with such sang-froid and even evident enjoyment.
“Now for the others!” cried Miguel, when he had assured himself that each of the six were really quite dead.
Spurring after him Billy and Bridge ran their horses over the rough ground at the base of the little hill, and then parallel to the arroyo for a matter of a hundred yards, where they espied two Indians, carbines in hand, standing in evident consternation because of the unexpected fusillade of shots which they had just heard and which they were unable to account for.
At the sight of the three the sharpshooters dropped behind cover and fired. Billy’s horse stumbled at the first report, caught himself, reared high upon his hind legs and then toppled over, dead.
His rider, throwing himself to one side, scrambled to his feet and fired twice at the partially concealed men. Miguel and Bridge rode in rapidly to close quarters, firing as they came. One of the two men Pesita had sent to assassinate his “guests” dropped his gun, clutched at his breast, screamed, and sank back behind a clump of mesquite. The other turned and leaped over the edge of the bank into the arroyo, rolling and tumbling to the bottom in
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