“Emilio Gonzales.”
“Listen, Fernando. Don’t stay a minute. Let me think. What if I cut your head, a very little, so?” He winced under the knife, and she kissed him. “See, it bleeds enough on this bandage, which will hide your face. Quick! To the Military Hospital! Sleep there, safe among hundreds of our wounded. Go!”
Meanwhile Vicente, the informer, had followed Diaz. Hearing the shot and finding McHenry wounded, he scurried to headquarters. The news went to Lawrence, who took his squad “on the double” to Calle de Zamora. Rifle butts shattered the door, and Lawrence, automatic in hand, led the men in with fixed bayonets.
La Pava, the beautiful Azteca, stood facing the bright steel, a thin wisp of smoke drifting from her cigarette.
“Buenas noches, señor?”
“You have six machine-guns. Where are they?” Lawrence looked at his wrist watch. “I give you three minutes to answer.”
La Pava had faced death before. A crack shot, riding in advance of Villa’s army, she had drawn the enemy’s fire, had stolen plans, food, money. She had sold herself to the opposing general and learned his strategy. She was a scout, a spy, a harlot—a patriot. Now she gazed innocently, admiringly, at the young lieutenant. His men, fascinated, unconsciously lowered their rifles.
“Señor,” she pleaded, “you will do me a great wrong if you shoot, for I have no guns. Some one has lied. Search and you will see.”
The marines turned the place inside out.
When Lawrence asked La Pava to take him into the courtyard she showed no hesitation, and his flashlight told him the ground had not been disturbed.