“Oh, but they will not do it! They were friends of my father; have known me from childhood—”
“They are Mexican—would love to see you mate with me, a Mexican like themselves. They will do as I say. If not”—his nod carried a sinister significance—“so much the worse for you.”
Unable to believe, she stared down at him; as she looked into the brilliant, hard eyes there was borne in upon her understanding of his insane egotism. The veneer of softness, courtesy, lip service, burned away; there was left only the animal fighting for the possession of its mate.
She bent her head in sudden shame. “Ramon, please take me home.”
“Yes, to ours.” He snatched her bridle. “Come! already we have wasted too much time.”
As they had spoken in English, Gordon heard all. Now he spoke. “You stopped them killing me, but that would have been less wicked. Remember she is no peona, but an American subject. For any mistreatment you will be called to account by our government.”
“Your government?” Turning his head, Ramon spat aside in the dust. “Your government? The Germans harried us for three years till we ran down and hanged the murderers of their countrymen at Covodonga. In Guerrero a villageful of people were shot for the murder of one Englishman. For the massacre of its citizens at Torreon even the Chinese demanded and obtained an indemnity of five million dollars. But your government—for the murder of hundreds of its men, dishonor of scores of its women, it has lodged—complaints. One more or less will not embarrass us—nor help you. Come on, hombre!”
As he moved off, leading Lee’s beast, Gordon writhed in a last effort to break his bonds. For the moment he was blinded by the rush of blood to his straining eyeballs, but as his sight cleared he saw Lee looking back. That womanly pity which transcends fear had lifted her for the moment above her own terrors. Like a light filtering through a storm, her smile gleamed wanly through the pale window of her distress. Then the chaparral swallowed her, and he settled back in black despair.
Though it was only a few seconds, it seemed an hour passed before a foot swinging into his line of vision caused him to look up. The revolutionists had finished dividing the money and were looking down at him.
“Going to cut my throat, now he’s gone,” Gordon read it—and did not care.