"You've done wonders," rejoined the captain, "but now you can rest on your arms, while I clear out this nest of hornets."
"Not a bit of it," replied Melton. "We're going to be in at the death."
"You stubborn Americanos," laughed the captain. "So be it then. You've certainly earned the right to have your way in this."
His dispositions were quickly taken. At the word of command, his troopers dismounted and tethered their horses. Then they deployed in a long line across the woods. A bugle blew the charge, and with a rousing cheer they rushed up the slope and across the clearing. A volley of bullets met them and several of them went down, but the rest kept on without a pause. Their carbines cracked without cessation, and one outlaw after the other fell, until not more than fifteen were left. These last were gathered in a corner of the camp, where under the leadership of El Tigre, who fought with a fury worthy of his name, they made their last despairing stand.
But their hour had come. The blood of their victims was at last to be avenged. One final charge, and the troops swept over them. The guerilla chief, seeing that all was lost, lifted his revolver with the last bullet left, and put it to his head to blow out his brains. He had always boasted that he would never be taken alive. But just as his finger was on the trigger, Dick, who, with his friends, had been in the forefront of the fight, knocked his hand aside and bore him to the ground. In another second, he was tightly bound and the fight was over. With four of his band, the only survivors, he was put under guard, and left to await the pleasure of his captors.
Then at last, they drew breath. The work was done and well done. Dick was with them, safe and sound, and none the worse for his terrible experience. The band which had been the scourge of that distracted country had been practically wiped out, and the leader, who for so long had defied God and man, was a prisoner, awaiting his fate. What that fate would be no one could doubt, who knew how richly he merited death.
"I suppose," said Dick, as they sat a little apart from the others taking lunch with the captain of the troop, at his invitation, "that he'll be taken to Montillo for trial."
"Guess again," chuckled Melton, who knew something of the methods of the
Mexican Government in dealing with guerillas.
"My orders were to take no prisoners," smiled the captain, and there was a meaning in his smile that boded ill for the remnant of the bandit crew.
"And, of course, I must obey my orders," he added drily. "The more readily," he went on, as his face grew dark, "because there is a private score that I have to settle with this scoundrel. The blood of my younger brother is on his hands. You can guess then, senors, whether I was glad, when I was trusted on this mission."