The insurgent leader went off into another explosion of rage. He would cut his heart out while the American devil was still alive. He would stake him out on the desert to broil to death beneath a Mexican sun.
Culvera showed the hat that he had punctured with his bullet. "Thus near I came to avenging you, general. See! One inch lower and I would have taken off the top of his head. Already Fuentes is pursuing him. Perhaps this Yeager may be dragged back to justice."
Culvera asked no questions as to why the general was alone with a condemned man at such an hour nor as to how the American had succeeded in overpowering him. He understood that his chief's wounded vanity was torturing the man enough to render curiosity unsafe. But the boyish sentry did not know this. He ventured on a sympathetic question.
"But, señor, Your Excellency, how did this Gringo devil, who was unarmed, take away your revolver and tie you?"
Pasquale, teeth clenched, whirled upon him. "You—dog of a peon—let your prisoner walk away without a challenge and then dare to question me!"
The old soldier's fist shot out like a pile-driver. The blow lifted the boy from his feet and flung him like a sack of meal against the wall. His body hung there a moment, then dropped to the ground. A faint groan was the only sound that showed he was not unconscious.
The general strode from the room, Culvera at his heels. The brown mask of his face told no stories of how the younger man was enjoying himself.
Before he slept, Ramon had one more pleasant task before him. He roused Harrison to tell him the news. He sat smiling on the foot of the bed, his eyes mocking the startled face of the prizefighter.
"I come to bring you good news, señor," he jeered. "Your countryman has escaped."
Harrison sat up in bed. "What's that? Escaped, did you say? Where to?"