Night had fallen on the third day at Vera Cruz, and from navy headquarters the commanding officer, his orders snapping like wireless, was directing the clean-up of snipers.
“Lawrence,” he said, “you’ll find six machine-guns—buried in boxes—backyard of No. 17 Avenida Cortes.”
As Lieutenant Lawrence left headquarters with his squad Ensign McHenry came in and reported.
“McHenry, you’re next. This is Gonzales, who knows where you can round up Fernando Diaz. Get Diaz to-night.”
McHenry started at once with Gonzales, listening to his flood of directions. The Mexican smiled in spite of himself at the American’s burst of speed, but kept up with him easily. They turned corners into filthy by-streets leading to the market space.
At the entrance to a dark alley Gonzales stepped aside.
“After you, señor.”
When the white uniform entered the shadow of an awning “Gonzales” whipped out his revolver and fired pointblank into the officer’s back. Flinging away his weapon, he ran to No. 17 Calle de Zamora and whistled.
“Pava, Pava, ven aca! I have shot an American officer! The marines are hunting for our machine-guns. I said ‘Avenida Cortes,’ but that dog, Vicente, who betrayed us, will lead the Americans here.”
“Let them come,” said La Pava. She bolted the door as he stepped in. “What name did you give?”