As they swung into the street upon which this south gate opened, Webster saw that it was deserted of all save the dead, for Sarros's clever ruse had worked well and had had the effect of arousing the curiosity of his enemies as to the cause of the uproar at the north gate, in consequence of which they had all scurried around the block to see what they could see, thus according Sarros the thing he desired most—a fighting chance and a half minute to get through the gate and headed for the steamship landing without interference.
Webster and Don Juan came abreast the high, barred gate in the thick, twenty-foot masonry wall as the barrier swung back and a man, in civilian clothes, thundered through on a magnificent bay thoroughbred.
“That's him. Shtop the divil!” screamed Don Juan. “They'll do the decent thing be me if I take him alive.”
To Webster, who had acquired the art of snap shooting while killing time in many a lonely camp, the bay charger offered an easy mark. “Hate to down that beautiful animal,” he remarked—and pulled away.
The horse leaped into the air and came down stifflegged; Sarros spurred it cruelly, and the gallant beast strove to gather itself into its stride, staggered and sank to its knees, as with a wild Irish yell Don Juan Cafetéro reached the dictator's side.
Sarros drew a revolver, but before he could use it Don Juan tapped him smartly over the head with his rifle barrel, and the man toppled inertly to the ground beside his dying horse.
“More power to ye, sor,” Don Juan called cheerily and turned to receive Webster's approval.
What he saw paralyzed him for an instant. Webster was standing beside the gate, firing into a dozen of Sarros's soldiery who were pouring out of a house just across the street, where for an hour they had crouched unseen and unheard by the Ruey men at the gate. They were practically out of ammunition and had merely been awaiting a favourable opportunity to escape before the rebels should enter the city in force and the house-to-house search for snipers should begin. They had been about to emerge and beat a hasty retreat, when Sarros rode out at the gate, and with a rush they followed, gaining the sidewalk in time to be witnesses to the dictator's downfall.
For a moment they had paused, huddled on the sidewalk behind their officer, who, turning to scout the street up and down, beheld John Stuart Webster standing by the gate with an automatic in his hand. At the same instant Webster's attention had been attracted to the little band on the sidewalk; in their leader he recognized no less a personage than his late acquaintance, the fire-eating Captain José Benavides. Coincidently Benavides recognized Webster.
It was an awkward situation. Webster realized the issue was about to be decided, that if he would have it in his favour, he should waste not one split-second before killing the mercurial Benavides as the latter stood staring at him. It was not a question, now, of who should beat the other to the draw, for each had already filled his hand. It was a question, rather, as to who should recover first from his astonishment. If Benavides decided to let bygones be bygones and retreat without firing a shot, then Webster was quite willing to permit him to pass unmolested; indeed, such was his aversion to shooting any man, so earnestly did he hope the Sobrantean would consider that discretion was the better part of valour, that he resolved to inculcate that idea in the Hotspur.