Webster glanced at Don Juan. “We can go a half or three quarters av a mile out the Calle San Rosario, sor,” the Irishman answered. “After that 'twill not be a pleasant sight for the young leddy—an' there may be some shootin'. Squads av the governmint throops took refuge in the houses an' took to snipin'. 'Twill be shlow wurrk roundin' the last av thim up. Even afther the fight is over, there'll be scatterin' shootin' scrapes all av the night long, I'm thinkin'.”
“At the slightest danger we'll turn back,” Webster announced, and with Don Juan Cafetéro scouting the way a block in advance they progressed slowly toward the centre of the disturbance.
Soon they passed a horse dead in the middle of the street; a little farther on one of the machine-gun company, a lank Texan, sat on the curb rolling a cigarette with his left hand. He had a bullet through his right shoulder and another through the calf of his left leg and had received no first aid attention; the flies were bothering him considerably and he was cursing softly and fluently, like the ex-mule-skinner he was.
Farther on another white invader lay face down in the gutter; for him the fight had ended almost ere it had begun. In the next block half a dozen sandal-footed Sobranteans, in the blue and red-trimmed uniform of the Guardia Civil, lay spawled in uncouth attitudes, where the first blast of a machine gun had caught them as they rushed out of the police station to repel the advancing mercenaries.
Seeing that the main street of the city would assume even a more grisly aspect the longer they followed it, Don Juan led Webster and Dolores a couple of blocks down a cross-street and turned out into the Calle de Hernandez, parallel to the Calle San Rosario. There had been no shooting in this street, apparently; as they proceeded not even a stray bullet whined down the silent calle.
Four blocks from the government palace, however, they found the narrow sidewalks of this quiet street lined with wounded from both sides, with a doctor and half a dozen of Ricardo's hired fighters ministering to them; as they threaded their way between the recumbent figures they came upon Mother Jenks, brandy bottle and glass in hand, “doing her bit.”
“Hah! So here you are, my lamb,” she greeted Dolores. “Right-o. Just where yer ought to be, Gor' bless yer sweet face. Let these poor misfortunate lads see that the sister o' the new president ain't too proud to care for 'em. 'Ere, lass. 'Old up the 'ead o' this young cockerel with the 'ole in 'is neck. 'Ere, lad. Tyke a brace now! 'Ere's some o' your own people, not a lot o' bloomin' yeller-bellies, come to put something else in yer neck—somethink that'll stimulate yer.”
The “young cockerel,” a blond youth of scarce twenty summers, twisted his head and grinned up at Dolores as she knelt beside him to lift him up. “Here, here, sister,” he mumbled, “you'll get that white dress dirty. Never mind me. It's just a flesh wound, only my neck has got stiff and I'm weak from loss of blood.”
Mother Jenks winked at Webster as she set a glass of brandy to the stricken adventurer's lips. “Give me a bit o' the white meat, as my sainted 'Enery used to s'y,” she murmured comically.
Dolores looked up at Webster. “I'll stay here,” she said simply. “I've found a job helping Mother Jenks. You and Don Juan may run along if you wish. I know you're as curious as children.”