Murphy looked up. He was wrapping his wrist with a handkerchief, one end of which he held between his teeth. Red spots were slowly spreading on the white of the bandage.
“Sure, it means hell’s broke loose,” replied the soldier of fortune, with promptness. Then, seeing Saxon, he shot him a quick glance of recognition. The eyes were weary, and showed out of a face pasted with sweat and dust.
“Hello, Carter,” he found time to say. “Glad you’re with us—but it’s all up with our outfit.”
This time, Saxon did not deny the title.
“What happened?” urged Rodman, in a frenzy of anxiety. The roaring of rifles did not seem to come nearer, except for detached sounds of sporadic skirmishing. The central plaza and its environs were holding the interest of the combatants.
“Sure, it means there was a leak. When the boys marched up to San Francisco, they were met with artillery fire. It had been tipped off, and the government had changed the garrison.” The Irish adventurer, who had led men under half a dozen tatterdemalion flags, smiled sarcastically. “Sure, it was quite simple!”
“And where is the fighting?” shouted Rodman, as though he would hold these men responsible for his shattered scheme of empire.
“Everywhere. Vegas was in too deep to pull out. The government couldn’t shell its own capital, and so it’s street to street scrappin’ now. But we’re licked unless—” He halted suddenly, with the gleam of an inspired idea in his eyes. The leader of the Foreign Legion was sitting on a table. Saxon noted for the first time that, besides the punctured wrist, he was disabled with a broken leg.
“Unless what?” questioned Colonel Martiñez. That officer was pallid under his dark skin from loss of blood. One arm was bandaged tightly against his side.
“Unless we can hold them for a time, and get word to the diplomatic corps to arbitrate. A delay would give us a bit of time to pull ourselves together.”