Scott’s blood boiled. His impulse was to shoot Juan Pachuca without warning. He raised his arm and then he paused. One does not shoot men in the back easily unless one is used to doing it. At that moment a Mexican saw him and yelled. Instantly everyone saw him. Pachuca whirled his horse about. It reared and plunged. Its rider laughed loudly.
“Ah, there you are, friend Scott!” he called. “I told you——” He brought his gun from his hip with a sudden twist. The two men fired simultaneously. Scott thought—hoped—that he saw Pachuca waver, but the air was full of smoke and he was dazed. He fired again.
Pachuca’s horse began to pitch violently; it took all its rider’s famous horsemanship to keep in the saddle. At the same moment, two men stole up behind Scott, who was rushing forward, seized him, threw him to the ground, and disarmed him. One of them took his rope and bound the American, while both of them grinned and muttered in Spanish.
By this time, Pachuca had defeated the evident intentions of the sorrel to buck himself through the store window, and uttering a cry dashed off in the direction of the automobile.
“Adios, Señor Scott!” he cried, as he went. “Next time you will take a neighbor’s good word, eh?”
“Next time I’ll take a soft-nosed bullet and get you back of the ear, you rotten little half-breed!” yelled Scott, maddened with helplessness and rage, rolling in the dust.
“Marc Scott, ain’t you got any sense? Keep your mouth shut!” screamed Mrs. Van Zandt in terror as they gathered around the prostrate man and untied him while the last of the raiders rode off.
“Did they get everything?” he demanded as he got to his feet.
“All except honor and they didn’t leave enough of that to stick in your eye,” responded Mrs. Van, bitterly. “They got Adams in the leg and Williams in the arm and took off the whole greaser population. Here, wipe your face off with this handkerchief before you rub all that sand in your eyes.”
Scott obeyed meekly.