His aim, erratic enough, was rendered more so by the desperate tugging of the revolutionists on the rope. Like spray from a swinging nozzle, the bullets flew right and left, all but one, which went through the leader’s head. Then, a couple of whips of the rope caught the free arm in against his body.
At the foot of the hill the men were examining their fallen leader. “He has killed him, el capitan! Cut his throat, the gringo swine!”
Eyes glittering in his villainous, pock-marked face, one of them snatched out his knife and came rushing uphill.
Gordon knew it for the end, felt the chill of death. If he could only have risen and fought them! But to lie there, bound and impotent, while the knife was drawn across his throat! To pass out into the blackness and leave Lee to face her fate! He struggled fiercely, striving to break his bonds. As he relapsed in cold despair, Lee’s voice, shrill in its mortal terror, rang out:
“If he is hurt, Ramon, I shall hate you forever!”
To give him due, Ramon was already stepping forward. A sudden writhing, like the first quiver of boiling water, passed over his face. He looked, but without answer raised a warning hand. “The gringo is not to be harmed, hombre.”
“But he has killed el capitan. Also he shot Tomas, our compañero.”
“The fortune of war, amigo. I passed my word to one that held my own life in the hollow of his hand.”
Gun in hand, he faced the revolutionist who stood fumbling his knife. Out of the situation it appeared that only tragedy could issue. But in all the world there is nothing more mercurial than the moods of a peon. Behind them rose a coarse laugh.
“Santisima Trinidad! why quarrel over a dead man, Ilarian? Hast thou forgotten the ten strokes with the flat of his saber el capitan gave thee for wasting rifle cartridges on rabbits before the fight of El Ojo? As for Tomas—I owed him ten pesos. Also, there are now but four of us to divide this señor’s money.”