“What is your errand here?”
“The American senorita, to whom I am indebted for this token.” Sanchez indicates the long, dull-red scratch upon his unamiable visage. “I have no time or inclination to parley with you, senor. Out of the way, or I shall order my men to fire upon you.” The troopers half-raise their carbines.
Van Zandt tears down a worn edition of the stars and stripes that decks the wall above his head, and as he throws it across his breast and shoulder his voice rings out defiantly:
“Fire upon the American flag, if you dare!”
The answer is a volley that splinters the woodwork about him and brings down the glass above the door in a shower. Van Zandt feels a sharp twinge in his left arm, and with an exclamation of rage and pain he lifts his revolver and fires.
Lieutenant Sanchez falls dead in his tracks and there is an instant scattering out of range on the part of his followers.
As Van Zandt closes the door and slips the bolt he turns to see Cyrus Felton lying upon the floor, a stream of blood flowing from a wound in his side.
“Fool! I cautioned him to keep out of range,” he exclaims, as he bends over the old man.
“Is he badly hurt?” asks the voice of Louise.
“I fear so. We must retreat upstairs, as we may expect an assault at any instant. Quick!”