He was perspiring so with his agony of fear, he was such a cheaply clad, miserable refugee, that Ernest was almost ashamed to threaten him. Still, he must not be let go, to fight again, maybe, against Texas independence.
“I won’t hurt you,” said Ernest gruffly. “Get up.” And he repeated, in Spanish: “Get up. Turn around.”
With shaking knees and heaving chest the soldier slowly obeyed, his hands still over his head. Now what was to be done with him? March him to the camp? But Duke was yet to be caught, and as like as not the prairie grass was full of these fugitives, some with their guns.
Then, while the soldier stood, trembling and babbling, to his relief Ernest saw Jim coming at a gallop.
XXI
THE NAPOLEON OF THE WEST SURRENDERS
“Why didn’t you catch your horse and come on?” demanded Jim, hot and jubilant. “What you got there? Another hombre [man]? Are you hurt? Seen any more Mexicans in the grass? Gosh, didn’t we-all whip ’em? That wasn’t a battle; it was a massacre. Wait a minute. Keep your bead on that fellow till I catch your pony.”
“But they were killing them! Our soldiers were killing them!” cried Ernest, half in a sob, his cheek still against his rifle stock, the rifle bead wavering against the miserable Mexican’s twitching shoulders.
Jim sobered as he rode for Duke.