She nodded. He was offering his arm to help her through the window when a frightened call came from below.
"Steve!"
He looked down. A Mexican trooper, one of those set to guard the front of the house, was approaching. A glance was enough to show that he knew something to be wrong. His startled eyes passed from Farrar to the rope ladder. They followed it from the ground to the window. He stopped, almost under the window. The camera man, taken aback, did not know what to do. Was he to run the risk of a shot? Even while he hesitated the man in uniform reached for a revolver.
Yeager knew what to do, and he did it promptly. Sweeping Ruth back from the window, he clambered through himself and poised his body for the leap. The sentry looked up again, saw what was about to happen, and let out a startled scream at the same instant that he flung up an arm and fired. Steve felt a sharp sting in his leg as he descended through the air. He landed astride on the shoulders of the Mexican. The man went to earth, hammered down so hard that the breath was driven from his body.
The arm of the range-rider rose and fell once. In his hand was the blue barrel of a revolver. The corrugated butt of the .45 had crashed into the thick matted hair of the Mexican. But it had done its work. Yeager rose quickly. The soldier lay still.
Already Ruth was coming down the swaying ladder. She dropped the last few rounds with a rush, plump into the arms of Steve.
"Let us hurry—hurry," she cried.
It was time to be gone, if not too late. Already men were converging upon them from different sides. Others were bawling orders for soldiers to turn out.
Steve went down almost as quickly as he had risen. His leg had given way unexpectedly.
Before he reached his feet again his revolver was out and doing business.