“He was caring for the wounded in the streets. He was shot,” answered the man gravely, laying his finger on his heart, “here!”
“Caring for the wounded!” cried McKildrick. “Why in hell wasn’t he——”
“Be quiet!” warned Peter.
McKildrick checked himself and, followed by Peter, ran to the street. In the light from the open door he saw an army stretcher, and on it a figure of a man covered with a blanket. An officer and the soldiers who had borne the stretcher stood in the shadow. With an exclamation of remorse and sympathy, McKildrick advanced quickly and leaned forward. But the man on the stretcher was not Vicenti. To make sure, McKildrick bent lower, and in an instant the stranger threw out his arms and, clasping him around the neck, dragged him down. At the same moment the stretcher bearers fell upon him from the rear, and, wrenching back his arms, held them together until the officer clasped his wrists with handcuffs. From Peter he heard a muffled roar and, twisting his head, saw him rolling on the sidewalk. On top of him were a half-dozen soldiers; when they lifted him to his feet his wrists also were in manacles.
McKildrick’s outbursts were silenced by the officer.
“You need not tell me you are Americans,” he said, “and if you go quietly no harm will come. We wish only to keep you out of mischief.”
“Go?” demanded Peter. “Go where?”
“To the cartel,” said the officer, smiling. “You will be safer there.”
He stepped into the light and waved his sword, and from across the street came running many more soldiers. A squad of these the officer detailed to surround his prisoners. To the others he said: “Search the house. Find the third one, Señor Forrester. Do not harm him, but,” he added meaningly, “bring him with you!”
At the word, Peter swung his arms free from the man who held them. With a yell of warning, which he hoped would reach Roddy, and pulling impotently at his handcuffs, he dashed into the house, the soldiers racing at his heels.