The Return of the Mucker - Edgar Rice Burroughs (my miracle luna book free read .TXT) 📗

electrified into action. He sprang to his feet and whipped off his sombrero. A broad smile illumined his freckled face.

“Yes, miss,” he answered. “What can I do for you?”

“Saddle a pony for me, Eddie,” she explained. “I want to take a little ride.”

“Sure!” he assured her cheerily. “Have it ready in a jiffy,” and away he went, uncoiling his riata, toward the little group of saddle ponies which stood in the corral against necessity for instant use.

In a couple of minutes he came back leading one, which he tied to the corral bars.

“But I can’t ride that horse,” exclaimed the girl. “He bucks.”

“Sure,” said Eddie. “I’m a-goin’ to ride him.”

“Oh, are you going somewhere?” she asked.

“I’m goin’ with you, miss,” announced Eddie, sheepishly.

“But I didn’t ask you, Eddie, and I don’t want you— today,” she urged.

“Sorry, miss,” he threw back over his shoulder as he walked back to rope a second pony; “but them’s orders. You’re not to be allowed to ride no place without a escort. ‘Twouldn’t be safe neither, miss,” he almost pleaded, “an’ I won’t hinder you none. I’ll ride behind far enough to be there ef I’m needed.”

Directly he came back with another pony, a sad-eyed, gentle-appearing little beast, and commenced saddling and bridling the two.

“Will you promise,” she asked, after watching him in silence for a time, “that you will tell no one where I go or whom I see?”

“Cross my heart hope to die,” he assured her.

“All right, Eddie, then I’ll let you come with me, and you can ride beside me, instead of behind.”

Across the flat they rode, following the windings of the river road, one mile, two, five, ten. Eddie had long since been wondering what the purpose of so steady a pace could be. This was no pleasure ride which took the boss’s daughter— “heifer,” Eddie would have called her—ten miles up river at a hard trot. Eddie was worried, too. They had passed the danger line, and were well within the stamping ground of Pesita and his retainers. Here each little adobe dwelling, and they were scattered at intervals of a mile or more along the river, contained a rabid partisan of Pesita, or it contained no one—Pesita had seen to this latter condition personally.

At last the young lady drew rein before a squalid and dilapidated hut. Eddie gasped. It was Jose’s, and Jose was a notorious scoundrel whom old age alone kept from the active pursuit of the only calling he ever had known—brigandage. Why should the boss’s daughter come to Jose? Jose was hand in glove with every cutthroat in Chihuahua, or at least within a radius of two hundred miles of his abode.

Barbara swung herself from the saddle, and handed her bridle reins to Eddie.

“Hold him, please,” she said. “I’ll be gone but a moment.”

“You’re not goin’ in there to see old Jose alone?” gasped Eddie.

“Why not?” she asked. “If you’re afraid you can leave my horse and ride along home.”

Eddie colored to the roots of his sandy hair, and kept silent. The girl approached the doorway of the mean hovel and peered within. At one end sat a bent old man, smoking. He looked up as Barbara’s figure darkened the doorway.

“Jose!” said the girl.

The old man rose to his feet and came toward her.

“Eh? Senorita, eh?” he cackled.

“You are Jose?” she asked.

“Si, senorita,” replied the old Indian. “What can poor old Jose do to serve the beautiful senorita?”

“You can carry a message to one of Pesita’s officers,” replied the girl. “I have heard much about you since I came to Mexico. I know that there is not another man in this part of Chihuahua who may so easily reach Pesita as you.” She raised her hand for silence as the Indian would have protested. Then she reached into the pocket of her riding breeches and withdrew a handful of silver which she permitted to trickle, tinklingly, from one palm to the other. “I wish you to go to the camp of Pesita,” she continued, “and carry word to the man who robbed the bank at Cuivaca—he is an American—that his friend, Senor Bridge has been captured by Villa and is being held for execution in Cuivaca. You must go at once— you must get word to Senor Bridge’s friend so that help may reach Senor Bridge before dawn. Do you understand?”

The Indian nodded assent.

“Here,” said the girl, “is a payment on account. When I know that you delivered the message in time you shall have as much more. Will you do it?”

“I will try,” said the Indian, and stretched forth a clawlike hand for the money.

“Good!” exclaimed Barbara. “Now start at once,” and she dropped the silver coins into the old man’s palm.

It was dusk when Captain Billy Byrne was summoned to the tent of Pesita. There he found a weazened, old Indian squatting at the side of the outlaw.

“Jose,” said Pesita, “has word for you.”

Billy Byrne turned questioningly toward the Indian.

“I have been sent, Senor Capitan,” explained Jose, “by the beautiful senorita of El Orobo Rancho to tell you that your friend, Senor Bridge, has been captured by General Villa, and is being held at Cuivaca, where he will doubtless be shot—if help does not reach him before tomorrow morning.”

Pesita was looking questioningly at Byrne. Since the gringo had returned from Cuivaca with the loot of the bank and turned the last penny of it over to him the outlaw had looked upon his new captain as something just short of superhuman. To have robbed the bank thus easily while Villa’s soldiers paced back and forth before the doorway seemed little short of an indication of miraculous powers, while to have turned the loot over intact to his chief, not asking for so much as a peso of it, was absolutely incredible.

Pesita could not understand this man; but he admired him greatly and feared him, too. Such a man was worth a hundred of the ordinary run of humanity that enlisted beneath Pesita’s banners. Byrne had but to ask a favor to have it granted, and now, when he called upon Pesita to furnish him with a suitable force for the rescue of Bridge the brigand enthusiastically acceded to his demands.

“I will come,” he exclaimed, “and all my men shall ride with me. We will take Cuivaca by storm. We may even capture Villa himself.”

“Wait a minute, bo,” interrupted Billy Byrne. “Don’t get excited. I’m lookin’ to get my pal outen’ Cuivaca. After that I don’t care who you capture; but I’m goin’ to get Bridgie out first. I ken do it with twenty-five men—if it ain’t too late. Then, if you want to, you can shoot up the town. Lemme have the twenty-five, an’ you hang around the edges with the rest of ‘em ‘til I’m done. Whaddaya say?”

Pesita was willing to agree to anything, and so it came that half an hour later Billy Byrne was leading a choice selection of some two dozen cutthroats down through the hills toward Cuivaca. While a couple of miles in the rear followed Pesita with the balance of his band.

Billy rode until the few remaining lights of Cuivaca shone but a short distance ahead and they could hear plainly the strains of a grating graphophone from beyond the open windows of a dance hall, and the voices of the sentries as they called the hour.

“Stay here,” said Billy to a sergeant at his side, “until you hear a hoot owl cry three times from the direction of the barracks and guardhouse, then charge the opposite end of the town, firing off your carbines like hell an’ yellin’ yer heads off. Make all the racket you can, an’ keep it up ‘til you get ‘em comin’ in your direction, see? Then turn an’ drop back slowly, eggin’ ‘em on, but holdin’ ‘em to it as long as you can. Do you get me, bo?”

From the mixture of Spanish and English and Granavenooish the sergeant gleaned enough of the intent of his commander to permit him to salute and admit that he understood what was required of him.

Having given his instructions Billy Byrne rode off to the west, circled Cuivaca and came close up upon the southern edge of the little village. Here he dismounted and left his horse hidden behind an outbuilding, while he crept cautiously forward to reconnoiter.

He knew that the force within the village had no reason to fear attack. Villa knew where the main bodies of his enemies lay, and that no force could approach Cuivaca without word of its coming reaching the garrison many hours in advance of the foe. That Pesita, or another of the several bandit chiefs in the neighborhood would dare descend upon a garrisoned town never for a moment entered the calculations of the rebel leader.

For these reasons Billy argued that Cuivaca would be poorly guarded. On the night he had spent there he had seen sentries before the bank, the guardhouse, and the barracks in addition to one who paced to and fro in front of the house in which the commander of the garrison maintained his headquarters. Aside from these the town was unguarded.

Nor were conditions different tonight. Billy came within a hundred yards of the guardhouse before he discovered a sentinel. The fellow lolled upon his gun in front of the building—an adobe structure in the rear of the barracks. The other three sides of the guardhouse appeared to be unwatched.

Billy threw himself upon his stomach and crawled slowly forward stopping often. The sentry seemed asleep. He did not move. Billy reached the shadow at the side of the structure and some fifty feet from the soldier without detection. Then he rose to his feet directly beneath a barred window.

Within Bridge paced back and forth the length of the little building. He could not sleep. Tomorrow he was to be shot! Bridge did not wish to die. That very morning General Villa in person had examined him. The general had been exceedingly wroth—the sting of the theft of his funds still irritated him; but he had given Bridge no inkling as to his fate. It had remained for a fellow-prisoner to do that. This man, a deserter, was to be shot, so he said, with Bridge, a fact which gave him an additional twenty-four hours of life, since, he asserted, General Villa wished to be elsewhere than in Cuivaca when an American was executed. Thus he could disclaim responsibility for the act.

The general was to depart in the morning. Shortly after, Bridge and the deserter would be led out and blindfolded before a stone wall—if there was such a thing, or a brick wall, or an adobe wall. It made little difference to the deserter, or to Bridge either. The wall was but a trivial factor. It might go far to add romance to whomever should read of the affair later; but in so far as Bridge and the deserter were concerned it meant nothing. A billboard, thought Bridge, bearing the slogan: “Eventually! Why not now?” would have been equally as efficacious and far more appropriate.

The room in which he was confined was stuffy with the odor of accumulated filth. Two small barred windows alone gave means of ventilation. He and the deserter were the only prisoners. The latter slept as soundly as though the morrow held nothing more momentous in his destiny than any of the days that had preceded it. Bridge was moved to kick the fellow into consciousness of his impending fate. Instead he walked to the south window to fill his lungs with the free air beyond his prison pen, and gaze sorrowfully at the star-lit sky which he should never