The streets were dark and deserted, for the heavy-hearted people had nothing to call them out of their houses at that hour. Nevertheless, Ned was feverishly on the alert, and, almost without his knowing it, his machete had jumped out of its sheath, ready for whatever might turn up.
“Halt!” suddenly came from a deep voice at his right, as he stealthily turned a street corner, and a tall form stepped out of the near shadows to stand in front of him.
Ned saw the long, bright blade of a lance pointed at his bosom, and there seemed but one thing left for him to do. The holder of the lance was beyond his reach, even if he had wished to strike him, but the lance itself was not. All the strength he had in him seemed to go into the sudden blow with which he severed the wooden shaft, an inch or so behind its fitting of sharp steel.
“Diablos!” exclaimed the astonished Mexican, as he struck back a heavy blow with the cudgel which remained in his hand.
Ned parried as well as he could with his machete, but there was some force left in the stick when it reached his head, and down he went. He had made a discovery at that very moment, however.
“Pablo!” he exclaimed, just as a second Mexican sprang toward him with a long knife in his hand.
“Señor Carfora!” loudly responded Pablo. “Hold back your knife, Manuelo! It is one of our own men. O Santos! My lance! I have no other weapon. I told them it was of the soft wood. How are you here, señor?”
NED SAW A LONG, BRIGHT BLADE
OF A LANCE POINTED AT HIS BOSOM