Title: Captain fly-by-night
Author: McCulley, Johnston
Language: English
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Transcriber’s Notes

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Words in small capitals are shown in UPPER CASE.

Please also see the note at the end of the book.



  CAPTAIN FLY-BY-NIGHT



  CAPTAIN
  FLY-BY-NIGHT

  _By_

  JOHNSTON McCULLEY
  AUTHOR OF “THE RANGERS’ CODE”


  [Illustration]


  NEW YORK
  G. HOWARD WATT
  1819 BROADWAY

  1926



  _Copyright, 1926, by_
  G. HOWARD WATT

  _All rights reserved_


  _Printed in the United States of America_



  To
  MY DAUGHTER
  MAURINE



CONTENTS


  CHAPTER                            PAGE

      I. THE NEOPHYTE DROPS A CUP      11

     II. ALONG THE HIGHWAY             35

    III. MYSTERIES                     48

     IV. A COYOTE HOWLS                63

      V. TWO GOOD SAMARITANS           76

     VI. VISITORS                      91

    VII. TWO TALKS AND A TUNNEL       100

   VIII. A VICTOR RUNS AWAY           112

     IX. THE ALARM                    128

      X. OUTLAWED                     135

     XI. AT THE PRESIDIO              148

    XII. A TRAGEDY                    162

   XIII. THE EAVESDROPPER             175

    XIV. UNMASKED                     187

     XV. THE WAY IN                   200

    XVI. THE WAY OUT                  210

   XVII. “PERSPIRATION, SEÑORITA!”    226

  XVIII. FOES IN WAITING              232

    XIX. CASSARA SEES A GHOST         243

     XX. ANOTHER VISITOR              254

    XXI. IN THE GUEST HOUSE           260

   XXII. “COMMAND ME, SEÑORITA!”      267

  XXIII. LOVE IN DARKNESS             274

   XXIV. LOVE PROVES TRUE             287

    XXV. THE SERGEANT SLEEPS AGAIN    299



CAPTAIN FLY-BY-NIGHT



CHAPTER I

THE NEOPHYTE DROPS A CUP


His great body stretched on the dirt floor in a shady corner of the
barracks-room of the presidio, his long moustache drooped, his big
mouth open, Sergeant Carlos Cassara snored.

His face was purple from wine and the heat; for the air was still and
stagnant this siesta hour, and empty vessels on the table near by told
of the deep drinking that had been done.

Scattered about were a corporal and a dozen soldiers, all sleeping and
snoring. Against the wall, half a score of feet from the slumbering
sergeant, an Indian neophyte had dropped his palm-leaf and was glancing
around the room from beneath eyelids that seemed about to close.

Outside was the red dust, a foot deep on the highway, and the burning
sun. The fountain before the mission splashed lazily; down at the beach
it seemed that the tide had not its usual energy. Neophytes slept in
the shadows cast by the mission walls. Here and there a robed fray went
about his business despite the heat and the hour. There was no human
being travelling El Camino Real--the king’s highway--as far as a man
with good eyes could see.

It was typical of the times--this siesta hour--with the blue California
sky above and the green Pacific sparkling in the distance, and the
spirit of present peace over old Santa Barbara and its mission. Yet the
peace, being one of decadence and therefore uncertain, was like to be
broken at any time, as all men knew.

Gone were the days of the sainted Junipero Serra and his coadjutors,
who founded the mission chain from San Diego de Alcalá to San Francisco
de Asis and made them strong in service to the natives and of wealth in
cattle and horses, olives, honey and wine, tallow and hides.

Now the Mexican Republic held sway, with its haughty governor riding
up and down El Camino Real in dignity; Indians--both gentiles and
neophytes--were sullen and enraged because of lands that had been taken
from them; officials sold concessions and robbed right royally; and
dissolute men created an atmosphere that combatted that created by the
frailes.

Robed Franciscans raised eyes to the skies and prayed for an end of
such unsubstantial, turbulent times. And in this mingling of atmosphere
Sergeant Carlos Cassara slept, and his corporal and soldiers slept, and
the flies buzzed, and the neophyte servant nodded against the wall.

Half an hour passed. The neophyte, whose duty it was to wave the
palm-leaf and keep flies and bees off the face of the sergeant, swept
the big fan through the air languidly, glanced around to be sure that
all slept, then got slowly and silently to his feet.

Once more he waved the fan, then dropped it and crept like a ghost
across the room to the open door. He stood in it for a moment, shading
his eyes with his hand, and looked up El Camino Real toward the north.
Sergeant Carlos Cassara continued his snoring, but he opened one eye
and watched the Indian closely.

Again the neophyte glanced back into the barracks-room, and for that
instant the sergeant’s eye was closed. When it opened a second time the
Indian was contemplating the highway as before, and the manner in which
he stood expressed in itself hope and eagerness.

Presently he turned from the doorway to find that the sergeant was
sitting up on the floor and regarding him. Mingled fear and rage
flashed in the neophyte’s eyes, then died out, and he hung his head and
stood waiting.

“Dog of a neophyte!” Cassara roared. “Is this the way you attend to
your duties? Wander away and let your betters be eaten by flies, eh?
Does not your padre teach you to guard your superiors at all times?”

“Pardon, _señor_.”

“Pardon, coyote? ’Tis but a short distance from the presidio to the
mission proper, yet a bullet can find your heart before you can reach
the chapel and seek sanctuary!”

The sergeant, grunting, got upon his feet, his eyes never leaving those
of the unfortunate neophyte, one hand fumbling at the hilt of his
sword, the other reaching for a whip that hung on a peg in the adobe
wall.

“Come!” he commanded.

“Pardon, _señor_,” the neophyte whimpered again.

“A fly stung me while you lingered in the doorway. ’Tis proper that
you, also, should be stung!”

“Pardon----”

“Have you no other word? _Dios!_ Pardon--pardon--pardon! Turn your
back!”

“Par----”

“Say it not again, or by the good Saint Barbara, for whom this post was
named, I’ll have your hide off your body in strips! Turn your back,
dog!”

The whip sang through the air. Came a screech from the neophyte even
before the lash touched his bare back! Corporal and soldiers sprang
to their feet, half terrified at the sudden din, reaching for their
weapons, trying to throw off their heavy sleep. Again the lash, and
again the screech! Across the shoulders of the Indian two great welts
showed. He dropped to his knees; and the lash sang on, verse after
verse of its diabolical song, while the soldiers laughed and shouted
their approval--until Sergeant Carlos Cassara finally hurled the whip
to a far corner of the room and wiped the perspiration from his brow
with the back of his hand.

“’Tis hot for such work, yet it must be done,” he grunted. “Get up,
hound! Hereafter do your duties as you have been commanded. And now,
tell me--what were you doing at the door?”

“I thought I heard someone approach, _señor_. It was but for an
instant----”

“Do not talk so to me with your crooked tongue! Your padre should
teach you truthfulness. As I snored I kept an eye open to watch. You
stood there minute after minute, looking up El Camino Real. Whom do you
expect?”

“If the _señor_ will par----”

“Do not say it again! For whom were you looking?”

“I have a brother at San Francisco de Asis, _señor_. He has been
helping the good padre there. He is due to return----”

“And you so love your brother that you would run to meet him, eh?” the
sergeant interrupted. “Straighten your tongue, dog, and answer me my
question!”

“I swear that I have a brother coming, _señor_!”

“Um! If you swear, I suppose that it must be so. At least the padre
teaches you to respect an oath. But was it your brother for whom you
were looking? Answer me that!”

“I am anxious to greet him, _señor_. He has been a long time in the
north.”

“No doubt. Take your bruised back to the other room, now, and fetch
wine. And if you wish to live to greet your brother, be sure that you
fetch it quickly!”

The neophyte glided away as the soldiers laughed. Sergeant Cassara
stalked to the table in the middle of the room, and the others crowded
around him when he beckoned.

“This neophyte will bear watching,” the sergeant announced. “I have
suspected him for several days. He has a sneaking way about him, the
dog! He would like to slit our throats as we sleep, no doubt!”

“It is true that he has a brother coming from San Francisco de Asis,”
the corporal offered. “I heard him speaking of it yesterday to a fray.”

“That part of it may be true. Each of the hounds has a score of
brothers. ’Tis the man’s great anxiety to greet this brother of his
that arouses my curiosity. Seldom does an Indian betray such family
devotion. With seditious messages going and coming up and down the
highway----”

“But our orders are merely to be watchful of all strangers,” the
corporal put in.

“Strangers! How long has it been since a genuine stranger of any
quality drifted along El Camino Real? Answer me that! Strangers, eh?
Watch the padres and the neophytes, say I! There is little love lost
between the presidio and the chapel! At the same time----”

The sergeant stopped speaking, for the Indian had come into the room
again, carrying a jug of wine. His head was bent forward on his breast,
and he walked like a man suffering pain. There was silence as he filled
the drinking cups; he stood to one side as the soldiers drank. Again he
made the round of the table and filled the cups, then put the jug down
and hurried out.

“If the man’s brother comes, it will be well to investigate him before
he reaches the chapel and has a talk with the padre,” continued the
sergeant. “A curse on this land of sun and dust and flies! ’Tis a dog’s
life--’tis an old man’s life, worse! There was a time when neophytes
joined with gentiles and gave us fight. Those were the good days--half
a score of us, perhaps, against a hundred of the red wretches!”

“If rumour proves true, those good days may come again soon,” the
corporal remarked.

“Glad would I be to welcome them! A man’s blade grows rusty and his
sword-arm heavy with fat. Who can put heart in shooting when it is only
to shoot at a mark? I am half minded to keep to myself anything I may
discover. Let them form their conspiracy, say I! It will give soldiers
good work to do!”

He put his empty cup on the table and walked across the room; the
others sank back on their stools again. Sergeant Cassara stood in the
open doorway looking toward the mission and watching a flock of sheep,
just down from their grazing-place in the hills. The heat waves danced
before his half-closed eyes. Corporal and soldiers began nodding again
over their cups.

Then Cassara turned and glanced toward the north. Far down the highway
was a swirl of dust. Cassara shaded his eyes with his cupped hands and
gazed in that direction. The soldiers heard him utter an exclamation,
saw him straighten suddenly and express interest.

“By the good Saint Barbara!” he exclaimed. “A stranger comes at last!”

Corporal and soldiers dropped their wine cups and hurried across the
room. They looked where their sergeant pointed. Down El Camino Real,
kicking up great clouds of red dust, came a man. No fray or neophyte,
this, nor a native runner on business connected with the missions! Here
was a gay caballero clad in zarape and sombrero, who staggered as he
walked and carried a burden on his back.

“Is the world coming to an end, that gentlemen of quality walk the
highway and pack their belongings?” the sergeant cried.

“’Tis a saddle he bears,” the corporal added. “I can see the sun
flashing from the silver on it. This is a peculiar thing. Perhaps he
has met with disaster, is wounded and we should give him aid.”

“I suppose, according to orders, some of us should go out in this
devil’s blaze and accost him,” the sergeant returned. “A caballero
who walks the highway and packs his saddle surely is a suspicious
personage. However, we’ll wait for a time. If he is wounded, he cannot
escape--and he must pass the presidio. Send a man to awaken the ensign,
corporal. ’Tis rare to think we have legitimate excuse for waking
him--he loves his sleep too well, that pretty officer of ours!”

“Your caballero is coming here!” the corporal announced.

“So he is! He turns off the main highway! A gentlemanly caballero, at
least, to save us a journey out in the sun. Mind your manners, now! Do
not make him suspicious. Do you attend to your own business, all of
you, and allow me to do the talking. But awaken the ensign, just the
same!”

The neophyte had entered the barracks-room again and was refilling the
wine cups, and from the cupboard he carried a fresh one to the table
for the approaching stranger. His lips were set tightly over his teeth
because of the pain the lashing had caused, but his eyes were flashing
with something besides anger. Sergeant Cassara turned quickly and
observed the Indian’s manner.

“Um!” the sergeant grunted. “A man finds himself torn between a desire
to do his duty and a desire to let things take their course and enjoy
the fighting that surely will follow. Neophyte! Get you some food
ready! From the manner in which this man staggers through the dust, he
comes to us with an empty belly.”

Again the Indian hurried to the rear room. The soldiers crowded around
the doorway in the shade. The stranger was within fifty yards of them
now. They saw that he stooped beneath the weight of the heavy saddle,
and that a bridle heavily chased with silver hung over one of his
arms. A sword swung at his side; a pistol was at his hip. His clothing
was covered with red dust, but they could see that it was rich. His
sombrero clung to one side of his head, as if about to fall off. His
hair was dark and hung in clusters of curls.

“’Tis a pretty young gentleman!” Sergeant Cassara snorted. “Now we
shall hear a tearful tale of the highway, I suppose, of how some five
thousand bandits set upon him and how he slew half and frightened
the remainder so that they fled, making his escape and bringing away
loot! Saint Barbara, forgive me if I think for an instant that such a
beau-looking being could be a conspirator!”

Once the stranger staggered, hesitated a moment, then came on. Not
until he was inside the shadow cast by the presidio building did
he stop. There he threw his saddle and bridle upon the ground,
stamped his boots, slapped at his clothes to shake off a part of the
accumulated dust, wiped his brow with a scented silk handkerchief, and
stood erect. Across his face flashed a rare smile.

“This cordial reception overwhelms me,” he said, speaking in deep
tones. “I have received hospitality at several places along El Camino
Real, yet always will I remember the greetings extended at Santa
Barbara. I shall live to tell my grandchildren how the soldiers, seeing
me from afar, ran to my assistance, insisting that they carry my saddle
and bridle, clean my boots and my clothes and offer me refreshing wine
and food, how a neophyte held damp palm-fronds over my head and fanned
away the heat, how guitar music was played as I ate and drank, and how
the mission bells rang in my honour. Never will I forget the kindnesses
you have exhibited. If ever it is within my poor power to repay, at
least in part----”

“’Tis His Excellency the Governor!” exclaimed Sergeant Cassara, in mock
horror.

“It might have been--and then how would you have felt? Even his
excellency might meet with disaster on the highway!”

“Now comes the tale of the five thousand bandits,” said the sergeant
to his soldiers. Turning to the stranger, he added: “Is it now the
fashion for a caballero to tramp the dusty trail like an Indian from a
rancheria?”

“All strong men do it for the pure love of exercise,” was the reply.
“The best of us carry a weight. This saddle of mine, for instance, is
no light thing. I am glad you ran to aid me this last half mile.”

“’Tis an unpleasant day,” murmured the sergeant, half ashamed.

“Ten miles afoot through dust and sun have proved it so to me.”

“Half a score of miles, say you? Are you walking on a wager, for
instance? Perhaps it is a penance imposed by your padre. Enter, at
least, and partake of food and wine.”

“Ah! Once more the unbounded hospitality of Santa Barbara’s presidio!”
the new-comer gasped. “I accept with delight, hail wine and food with
joy!”

He picked up his saddle and bridle and entered, to throw them on the
floor in a corner of the room. Already the neophyte had filled the wine
cups and put out cold food. The stranger bowed and sat at the head of
the table.

“I trust that you will excuse my lack of conversation for the time
being,” he said. “Ten miles such as I have had to-day give a man hunger
and thirst.”

“More food, neophyte!” the sergeant roared. “We have before us a
famished man. Water, that he may bathe his face and hands after he has
eaten. Brush his cloak, also, and clean his boots. The hospitality of
the Santa Barbara presidio is questioned, I believe. By the good saint,
we will treat him as well as any fray or padre at any mission in the
chain!”

“I toast you, fair sir!” exclaimed the stranger, and emptied the wine
cup. The eager neophyte filled it again quickly and departed for water.

“When we observed you in the distance,” the sergeant said, “I sent a
man to awaken our ensign. Being an officer who loves his sleep, it
probably will be some minutes before he arrives to greet you. If, in
the meantime, you care to relate what has befallen you on the highway
we shall rejoice to hear it.”

“A matter of small consequence,” replied the stranger. “I was set upon
by bandits, both Indian and Mexican.”

“One of each?” inquired the sergeant, blandly.

“At least half a score of each, _señor_--quite a company, in fact.”

“Ah! Now we are to get the story of your prowess. Kindly proceed,
caballero!”

“I rode alone, save for an Indian. We were ambushed. My Indian fell at
the first discharge of arrows----”

“Arrows, _señor_?”

“At first--so as to make no noise and put other travellers on their
guard, I presume. Then the bandits rushed. Standing with my back
against a jumble of rocks, I emptied my two pistols in their faces.
Then I drew my sword. Arrows and bullets were flying about me then,
yet in my anger I made such good use of my blade that the bandits
fled--those able to flee. They had slain my horse and my Indian’s mule.
I took off saddle and bridle, not wishing to leave them behind for the
thieves, and trudged here afoot, some half-score of miles, carrying my
property. That is all--it is of small consequence.”

“An excellent tale!” Sergeant Cassara cried, slapping his thigh.
“You are a man after my own heart, caballero! Neophyte, fill the
man’s wine cup again! And now, fair sir, that you have repaid us for
your refreshment with this artful bit of fiction, will you not indeed
be kind enough to tell us what happened to your mount that sent you
walking along El Camino Real carrying your saddle?”

“Is it possible,” demanded the stranger, “that you do not believe my
story?”

“Was I born during the last moon, think you? Have I cut my first tooth?
Can I, by any chance, yet stand without clinging to the wall--what?”

Sergeant Cassara roared with laughter, throwing back his head and
opening his wide jaws. The corporal and soldiers joined in the
merriment. And as suddenly as the laughter had commenced it died out,
for the stranger had risen slowly and deliberately and was wiping his
greasy hands on the end of his cloak. His eyes had narrowed until it
seemed that flashes of fire came from between the lids; his hands
gripped the edge of the table as he bent forward.

“This has been a hard day for me, _señor_,” he said. “I am not used to
walking great distances in the dust and sun and carrying a heavy weight
while doing so. Indeed, I am far from feeling fresh. But, by all the
saints that ever existed or will, I still have strength enough to run
through the man who calls me liar! Draw, you--and on guard!”

“Though you have slain half the bandits on the coast, you still thirst
for blood?” laughed the sergeant.

“This is not levity, _señor_. You have questioned my word. Draw and
defend yourself--else be called coward!”

A roar like that of an angry bull came from the throat of Sergeant
Cassara, and the stool upon which he had been sitting was kicked to one
corner of the room as he sprang to his feet. His blade was out in an
instant, his eyes flashed with anger, his face was purple with rage,
and he stood ready in the centre of the room beside the table with
curses rumbling in his throat. The other soldiers had dashed to the
wall out of the way; the neophyte had come in at the doorway, and now
crouched there, watching.

With deliberation the stranger just off the highway drew his blade
and stepped forward to engage. There was no haste in his manner, no
nervousness apparent. He went about this business of duelling as calmly
as he would have drawn on a pair of boots.

The steel clashed, and the two men circled around the room, the
sergeant breathing heavily, the other fencing without apparent effort.
Yet the sergeant could have told that, by the feel of the blade, he was
aware of the strength in the other’s wrist, and knew he was fighting
with no weakling. Every trick he tried was met by a better one; the
stranger had a guard for every thrust. The soldiers against the wall
began to murmur with delight--here was fencing to be seen!

And then the sergeant let out a bellow as a favourite thrust was turned
aside, and losing his head started to force the fighting. He thrust
and slashed, while the stranger’s blade darted in and out like the
tongue of a serpent. Step by step, the man off the highway was forced
to retreat, yet those who watched beside the wall realised he was
but awaiting the proper time. In the hearts of the corporal and his
soldiers there was sudden fear for the big sergeant with whom they had
served for so long. In the heart of the neophyte who crouched at the
door there was a sudden hope.

Then came an exclamation from the corporal, who was watching closely!
The stranger’s blade made a sudden dart forward; the sergeant’s sword
described an arc through the air, the sun flashed from it an instant,
then it crashed against the wall and its owner stood disarmed. The
caballero stepped back and bowed.

“Even so, _señor_!” he said. “If you will regain your blade, I’ll be
glad to teach you another lesson. You are not without skill, yet your
arm appears slow from too much leisure.”

“Now, by the good saint----!” Cassara began. But he broke off his
sentence in the middle, for he had glanced toward the doorway, and in
it stood the ensign.

The caballero turned, removed his sombrero, and made a sweeping bow.
His eyes were twinkling again.

“What brawl is this?” the ensign demanded.

“A little question regarding my veracity, _señor_,” the caballero
replied. “If it is your wish to see it settled----”

“Enough! Sergeant, pick up your sword, and hereafter do not brawl with
strangers--at least not until I have conversed with them. And you,
_señor_, be kind enough to be seated, and tell me your name and station
and why you travel El Camino Real. You came from the north?”

“_Si, señor_--from San Francisco de Asis.”

“And you are going----?”

“To San Diego de Alcalá.”

“’Tis a long, dusty journey at this time of the year. Your business
is----?”

“Mine own, _señor_, and it please you!”

“Have a care! I do not question you through impertinence, but through a
sense of duty.”

“My business is of no particular consequence in so far as you are
concerned, _señor_. I have here a pass signed by his excellency that
perhaps will quiet your fears.”

He took a folded document from his cloak and handed it over. The
ensign, frowning, took it and spread it open. He read it through, then
looked at the caballero again.

“It is, in truth, his excellency’s signature and seal, and tells all
officers the bearer is to be allowed to proceed unmolested and given
aid if he asks it,” the ensign admitted. “Yet the pass does not name
you, _señor_.”

“I am aware that it does not.”

“I am Ensign Sanchez, _señor_. May I have the pleasure of knowing you?”

“Man to man, I am glad to make your acquaintance. As for the name--does
it matter? You may call me Felipe, or Juan--whatever pleases you.”

“It is highly irregular.”

“Is the pass irregular, _señor_? You know the times, I take it. Can you
conceive a reason why a gentleman might not wish his name cried aloud
for all men to hear?”

“Ah! If you are on business of his excellency’s----”

“Let us have no misunderstanding or false pretense, _señor_. I have not
said that I am on business of state. I have said merely that I hold his
excellency’s pass, and that you are bound to honour it.”

The ensign rose and bowed; and he was smiling.

“So be it!” he replied. “I am glad to welcome you to Santa Barbara.
Your business, I perceive, is indeed your own. Command me, if there is
anything you desire.”

“Your men have given me food and drink, _señor_, thank you and them. I
was forced to walk into the post because of an attack of bandits----”

“How is this?”

“My Indian was slain, also my horse. I managed to drive off the thieves
and reach here afoot. I wish to continue my journey immediately. So
my only request, _señor_, will be for a good horse, for which I stand
ready to pay.”

Ensign Sanchez threw up his hands in a gesture of despair.

“Ask me for a fortune, _señor_; ask me to turn traitor to his
excellency! Either would be forthcoming sooner than a good horse at
this moment. Not a horse worthy of the name can you find now at Santa
Barbara. In a day, say, or two, by sending out to some rancho, I may
be able to get you one, but none are here now except decrepit brutes I
would not ask a gentleman to mount.”

“This is almost past belief!” the caballero said.

“First came the Indian outbreak a year ago, when all the good animals
were either killed or run off, and recently came a requisition from
his excellency. We have good horses coming, _señor_, from San Juan
Capistrano in exchange for other commodities, but they will not arrive
for another month. Believe me, _señor_, I am sorry! If your business is
urgent----”

“I must depart within an hour, and I must have a mount of some
kind--the best to be obtained.”

“Ask for food, or gold, or a score of Indian guides! But when it comes
to a good horse----”

There was a sudden commotion at the door, where the soldiers had been
standing, jesting with the sergeant over his recent defeat. To the ears
of the ensign and his guest came the sound of tinkling bells, and they
heard the loud laughter of the troopers.

“By the good saint--another stranger!” Cassara exclaimed. “Are all the
grandees of Spain abroad this day?”

The ensign and the caballero arose and walked across to the door. Down
El Camino Real they saw approaching a man astride a mule. He was
richly dressed. The mule had a string of bells around its neck. The
rider wore pistol and sword, and he held a guitar under one arm. He
waved at the men crowded about the doorway, then struck the strings of
the instrument and began to sing.

“There comes your mount, _señor_,” the ensign said, laughing.

“Very true!” the caballero replied; and there was no merriment in his
face as he said it.

He folded his arms and stood beside the ensign in the doorway, waiting.
The song of the latest arrival reached an end as the mule came to
a stop before them. The rider swung his guitar behind his back,
dismounted, removed his sombrero and bowed to the ground.

“Greetings!” he called. “I crave hospitality, food and drink for both
myself and beast, refreshment after my long and dusty journey and my
bad fright.”

“Fright?” questioned the ensign.

“Even so, _señor_. A distance of ten miles from here I rounded a curve
in the highway to come upon dead men, a dead mule and a dead horse. It
must have been a pretty battle there! I haven’t seen as much blood in
a score of moons. Indians and Mexicans--filthy bandits, I took them to
be! I counted six, then covered my eyes with my hands and fled. Blood
always did upset me. But it must have been a rare battle!”

Sergeant Carlos Cassara looked back at the caballero with wide and
glistening eyes, his anger at his recent defeat somewhat assuaged.

“By the good saint!” he swore. “My gentlemanly pedestrian of the
highway must have been telling me the truth.”

He called a neophyte servant to take the mule to the adobe stable in
the rear of the barracks, while the new-comer followed the ensign
inside, followed in turn by the sergeant and the soldiers.

“You command here?” the mule’s owner asked the ensign.

“At present. My lieutenant is visiting at a rancho near by.”

“And you are called----?”

“Ensign Sanchez, _señor_. May I ask your name in turn?”

“It really does not matter. Allow me, _señor_, to present you a pass
signed by His Excellency the Governor. You will find, I think, that he
tells all officers to use me with respect and to aid me on my way. Look
not for my name, there, _señor_, for you will not find it.”

“It is almost beyond belief,” the ensign said, “that two strangers
should arrive in a single day, each with a pass from his excellency
that is innocent of a name.”

“How is this? Another stranger with a pass?”

“This gentleman you see before you, _señor_. It was he, I believe, who
slew those men you stumbled over in the highway.”

“Then he is an excellent shot and has a good sword-arm!” He turned and
looked the caballero straight in the eyes, and the ensign watched to
see if a sign passed between them, but could not observe any. “After
all,” he resumed, “suppose we both do have passes--what of it? His
excellency trusts more than one man in this broad world, I assume.
But, since there are two of us without names, we are going to have
difficulty carrying on polite conversation. It is better we called
ourselves something before we get badly tangled. You may call me Juan,
for instance.”

“And you may call me Claudio,” said the caballero, laughing.

“Excellent! Juan and Claudio!”

“Devil and Hades!” growled Sergeant Cassara. “’Tis enough to give a man
a crooked brain! Neophyte! Get food and drink for the _señor_!”

The mule’s owner sat at one end of the table, the caballero at the
other end, with the ensign between them. The former ate; the two latter
drank. The neophyte hung about, seemingly anxious to be of service to
these two fine gentlemen, always watching their faces like a man who
expects a message. Sergeant Cassara gathered his squad and stalked to
the end of the barracks-room like an old hen clucking to her chickens,
and got out cards and dice.

“You came from San Francisco de Asis?” queried the ensign of the mule’s
owner.

“I left there recently.”

“We are to have the pleasure of your company at Santa Barbara for some
time?”

“For an hour or two while I rest, _señor_. I am on my way to San Diego
de Alcalá.”

“This other guest of mine, at present known as Claudio, also goes to
San Diego de Alcalá.”

“So? I shall be glad to avail myself of his companionship on the
highway, if he is willing, since he has so strong an arm and such
courage. So much blood I never saw in one small spot----!”

“But there are difficulties,” the ensign continued. “The _señor_ lost
his mount during the attack of the bandits, and we have no good horse
we can furnish him. It will take a day or two to send out to some
rancho for a worthy steed, but he would proceed on his way almost
immediately.”

“It desolates me to hear it, for I would have liked this stranger’s
company on the journey. But it is imperative that I follow the highway
again within an hour or so.”

“I find myself in the same predicament,” the caballero announced.

“It is sad, _señor_, yet it is true, that we both cannot ride one mule
with any degree of speed and comfort.”

“Agreed! Yet, I think, if you are a gentleman of spirit, I will ride
south on your mule, and you will wait here a day or two until a horse
can be fetched from a rancho.”

“That is a broad statement, _señor_,” replied the mule’s owner, his
face growing dark for an instant.

“I did not mean it in a disrespectful way.”

“You imagine, perhaps, that you are on business of state and that I
will surrender my mule because of that? Ordinarily, _señor_, but not at
this time. I have important business at San Diego de Alcalá.”

“And I! If you are wiling to let merit decide between us----”

“Fight you for my own mule? After what I observed in the highway? Give
me credit for some wit, kind _señor_.”

“It will not be necessary to clash blades over a mule.” The caballero
bent forward over the table as he spoke, and his eyes held those of the
other man. “There are other ways--dice, for instance, or cards!”

There was silence for a moment, and then the owner of the mule threw
himself backward in a gale of loud laughter, and the soldiers in the
corner looked up in astonishment.

“Dice? Cards?” he cried. “You would play me for my own mule? It is
amusing! And what would I stand to win, _señor_?”

“What you will--money, such jewels as I have on my person----”

“A note of promise to pay, perhaps?”

“Not so, _señor_, since to give you that I would of a necessity be
obliged to disclose my name.”

“I understand. It appears that there are two of us not anxious to
disclose names. Did we not have passes from his excellency, we might
have trouble with our friend the ensign here. You would play me--stake
gold and jewels against my poor mule, eh? My journey is urgent,
_señor_, but never have I refused to play.”

“Then you agree?”

“I do _señor_, except that you wait for half an hour. I never throw
dice or flip a card while exhausted. In the meantime we can converse.
It would avail me nothing, I suppose, to ask your business at San Diego
de Alcalá?”

“No more than for me to ask yours, _señor_,” replied the caballero,
smiling.

The mule’s owner sipped at his wine.

“Quite so!” he said, thoughtfully. “Then let us talk of affairs at the
other end of El Camino Real. I understand that his excellency is coming
along the highway soon.”

The ensign sat up straight on his stool, all attention, and regarded
the speaker closely. The neophyte’s eyes narrowed an instant, and he
drew nearer the table, pretending to be of service, listening intently
at every word.

“His excellency coming? This is news!” the ensign exclaimed.

“I heard it rumoured before I left San Francisco de Asis. A tour of
inspection, I believe. Ha! Perhaps, officer, you can solve me that
riddle? ’Tis said he makes the journey within a month. A tour of
inspection, eh? With a couple of hundred soldiers at his heels?”

The neophyte dropped a wine cup.

“Clumsy idiot!” the ensign growled.



CHAPTER II

ALONG THE HIGHWAY


The table was cleared save for three fresh cups newly filled by the
Indian, one at the elbow of each man. Sergeant Cassara lurched across
the room pulling at his belt, and the corporal and soldiers followed at
a respectful distance, and slowly, trying not to show so much interest
in the proceeding that there would be a rebuke from the ensign.

The mule’s owner was chuckling to himself; the caballero sat at the
other end of the table grim and determined.

“I do not pretend to interest myself too much in the business of either
of you gentlemen,” the ensign announced, “yet it seems to me a day or
two at Santa Barbara would not be amiss. Within two days I can get an
excellent horse and you two may take the remainder of your journey
together.”

“I must depart at the earliest possible moment,” the caballero replied.

“And I also,” said the owner of the mule.

“You are determined to play?” queried the ensign. “Then one, I suppose,
will depart as soon as the game is over, and the other remain here
until I can procure a good steed?”

“That is the situation,” his guests agreed.

“Riding the mule, you scarcely can reach another mission by fall of
night.”

“If I am successful in leaving on the mule, I’ll not stop until I reach
the pueblo at Reina de Los Angeles,” the caballero said. “I’ll get food
and drink where and how I can. My business is urgent.”

“There may be more bandits.”

“There are more bullets in my pistols and more thrusts in my sword-arm,
_señor_. I dislike to appear a boaster, but I am inclined to believe I
can care for myself.”

He met the eyes of the mule’s owner, as if there was some special
significance in the words, and for the moment the chuckling of the
latter stopped.

“And you, _señor_?” asked the ensign, turning toward the other end of
the table.

“My plans are similar to those of the caballero, officer. Let us play.”

He began chuckling again; he seemed to be enjoying a rare joke that
the others did not know. Very carefully he turned back the lace of his
cuffs and pulled the sleeves of his jacket a few inches up his arms.
His long, tapering fingers worked for a moment, then he clasped his
hands and waited. The caballero turned back his cuffs also, and put his
hands on the table before him. He never took his eyes from the other
man; he was as calm, apparently, as when duelling with the sergeant.

“Well?” the ensign asked. “What is the game? What are the stakes to
be?”

“Whatever the _señor_ considers the value of his mule,” the caballero
said.

“It seems that mules have risen in demand, and so in value, yet I
will do the fair thing. I stake the beast, saddle and bridle, even my
guitar, also the chance to be the one to proceed along the highway
immediately. And do you, _señor_, put out your gold, piece by piece,
until I have cried enough.”

“It is a fair plan,” the caballero said. He took a purse from his
bosom, opened the mouth of it, and began taking out gold coins, piece
by piece, piling them before him on the table, while the mule’s owner
counted under his breath and the ensign pretended not to be interested,
and the sergeant and the soldiers bent forward, their eyes bulging. Bit
by bit the pile of gold grew, yet the caballero did not hesitate, and
the tenth piece was placed on the table as quickly as the first.

“Hold!” called the mule’s owner, presently. “It is agreeable, _señor_?”

“I am satisfied. As you say, mules have risen in demand and price.”

“Then we play!” He reached to his belt, and drew a pack of cards from
behind it and tossed them on the table. He took dice forth, and placed
them beside the cards.

“Your choice, _señor_?” he asked.

“Let it be cards,” the caballero answered.

“Ah! Cards it is!” He picked up the dice and returned them to his
pocket, and then reached for the pack, and his long fingers shuffled
the bits of pasteboard with a skill born of experience.

“But not that pack of cards, _señor_!” There was a certain ring in the
caballero’s voice that caused the ensign to glance at him sharply and
made the mule’s owner flush. The smile left the latter’s face and his
chuckling ceased again.

“You have objections to this particular pack of cards?” he asked.

“I have indeed, _señor_. This is to be a game of chance, not one of
skill.”

“Just what do you mean by that, _señor_?”

“We are playing for high stakes, perhaps--possibly for more than a mule
and guitar. Suppose we use some deck of cards procured by our good
friend, the sergeant. There will be no question then of--er--undue
familiarity with a certain pack.”

“You mean to insinuate, _señor_, that I would cheat at cards?”

“Would you use my private deck, _señor_, had I one with me?”

“Possibly not.”

“You see? Let us use the sergeant’s cards. I assure you that I have not
touched one of them.”

“So be it!” The mule’s owner shrugged his shoulders. His teeth did not
flash in a smile again. His fists were clenched until the knuckles were
white.

Sergeant Cassara fetched the cards and threw them on the table, then
stood back.

“We will allow the ensign to shuffle them and place them before us,”
the caballero said. “Each of us will then draw a card. The one who
draws the highest will ride away on the mule and take this heap of
gold with him. Is anything simpler?”

“As you say, it is very simple.”

“And you are agreed?”

“Certainly, _señor_.”

Ensign Sanchez drew a deep breath and shuffled the cards. He put the
pack in the middle of the table and looked at his two guests.

“Draw first, _señor_,” the caballero offered.

“Suppose we cut the pack in the middle and discard the top,” said the
other. “It is best to be careful.”

“You dare to insinuate--” began the ensign, starting to get up from his
stool.

“Softly, softly, officer. I insinuate nothing,” the mule’s owner
replied. “Our friend at the other end of the table began this
precaution, and it is no more than polite to continue it. You will cut
the cards and kill the top half of the deck?”

The ensign did as he was requested and sat down again. The mule’s owner
put out a hand and took the top card. He threw it face upward on the
table.

“The ten of diamonds!” he said. “It is my lucky card, _señor_.”

Without hesitation the caballero drew the next card and flipped it over.

“The king of diamonds!” he said. “’Tis by far the luckier card in this
instance, _señor_. I believe the mule is mine?”

“The mule is yours--guitar and all.”

The caballero arose and bowed.

“Then I must depart from this hospitable post as soon as the neophyte
fetches the beast to the door,” he said. “May I add, _señor_, that I
hope you are able to procure a horse within a short time?”

“Your solicitude for my welfare overwhelms me,” said the man who owned
the mule no longer. “I shall be in San Diego de Alcalá before you,
however.”

“Do you wish to make a wager concerning that?”

“A couple of pieces of gold, dear Claudio!”

“Done! It is only fair to say, however, that I shall exchange the mule
for a horse somewhere along the highway. And I shall have many hours
the start of you.”

“Travellers along the highway are stopped at times, my dear Claudio,
even when they carry his excellency’s pass.”

The caballero’s face darkened an instant as he looked at the other
man. Then he laughed nervously, and emptied his wine cup with a single
swallow, and arose. He picked up the guitar and struck a chord or two,
and laughed again, almost in the other’s face. It was bravado and
insolence mingled.

Sergeant Cassara was growling admiration of the caballero’s manner; the
ensign feared trouble between these two guests of his. To the ears of
those in the barracks-room came the tinklings of bells as a neophyte
led the mule to the door.

“I thank you for your hospitality, ensign,” the caballero said.
“Perhaps at some future day you may be my guest. Here are a couple
of pieces of gold--give your soldiers wine in my name. Perhaps the
neophyte will hand a piece to the padre at the mission for me? I have
not the time to stop.”

“I’ll see it done, _señor_,” the ensign replied.

“And do you continue your sword practice, sergeant,” he went on. “You
have the making of a fencer in you, I do believe.”

“Now, by the good saint----”

“As for you, _señor_,” he continued, fating the man who had owned the
mule, “I suppose we’ll meet in San Diego de Alcalá?”

“You may be sure of that, _señor_, if you live to reach the mission
there.”

“_Adios_, then, kind friends! I am none too familiar with the gaits of
a mule, yet no doubt I can make shift to travel. Ah, yes! My guitar!”

He threw the cord around his neck and swung the instrument to his back,
then walked briskly to the door. The others crowded after him, Sergeant
Cassara grinning from ear to ear as he watched the stormy face of the
man who had lost the mule.

The caballero put his own heavy saddle and bridle on the beast and
mounted. Once more he removed his sombrero and bowed to them; and then
he turned the mule’s head, swung the guitar before him, struck a chord,
began to sing, and started off down the slope toward El Camino Real.

Standing in the doorway, they watched until the beast’s hoofs began
kicking up clouds of the red dust. Once the caballero waved his hat at
them, then looked back at the presidio no more. He passed the mission
at a trot, failing to greet a fray who stood beside the wall. He made
a turning where trees shut Santa Barbara from his view, and then he
raked the beast’s sides with his spurs and urged it into a run.

Mile after mile he travelled beneath the burning sun, half choked with
the dust, his sombrero pulled low down over his eyes, always alert
where there was a chance for ambush, now and then stopping at the crest
of a hill to look far ahead on the highway.

Evening came, and he stopped beside a creek to drink and wash the
dust from his face and hands, and to water the mule. And then he went
on through the darkness, having difficulty at times keeping to the
highway, now and then stopping to listen as if for pursuit. The moon
rose, and he urged the mule to greater speed.

He approached San Buenaventura, the dogs howling when they caught the
sound of the mule’s hoofs. An Indian hailed him, but he did not stop.
On and on through the night he rode, mile after mile. Sixty miles from
San Buenaventura to San Fernando mission--a good day’s journey--and he
was determined to make it in half the time!

Day came, and the sun beat down into the valley, merciless alike to
man and beast. He saw a skulking gentile frequently, but always at a
distance, and he knew there was less possibility of bandits here. His
mule was fagged and seemed insensible to the spurs. The dust had caked
on the man’s face, his eyes were swollen, and he suffered from thirst.

Now the highway followed a dry watercourse, and now it ran along the
rim of a hill. On the crests he stopped the mule and looked ahead, but
never behind. It was interruption he feared now, not pursuit. He passed
a flock of sheep being driven toward the north, and the neophytes
herding them looked at him in astonishment when he refused to answer
their respectful salutations. Once more he stopped at a creek to bathe
his eyes and drink, allowing his beast to have but a small amount of
water and to nibble a few minutes at the green growth along the bank.

Noon came; he reached the crest of a hill to see the mission of San
Fernando glistening white in the distance. Urging the mule to greater
speed, he passed a rancho frequently, but did not stop for refreshment.
The mule was trotting with hanging head, negotiating the rough highway
with difficulty.

As he neared the mission the beast staggered and fell, and a neophyte
came running.

“The mule is yours if you can save him,” the caballero said. “Remove
saddle and bridle and bring them after me. Where is the padre?”

“In the storehouse, _señor_.”

The caballero hurried away. The padre had witnessed his arrival and was
walking slowly toward him. They met beside the wall.

“I have immediate need of a good horse, padre,” the caballero said. “I
have gold to pay for the beast.”

“I can get you one in a short time, _señor_. You are hurrying toward
the south?”

“On an urgent matter, padre.”

“These are turbulent times, I am told. If the sainted Serra were still
among the living, to guide us----”

“I have not said I am on business of state.”

“I beg your pardon, _señor_. I was not attempting to interfere in your
personal affairs.”

“I have been riding all night,” the caballero went on. “I came from
Santa Barbara on a mule and almost killed the beast. Get me a horse,
and blessings be upon your head! And food and wine, and a bit of water,
would not be amiss.”

The padre turned and led the way into the nearest building. He placed
food and wine upon a table there, and sent for a horse. A neophyte
entered and removed the caballero’s boots and bathed his feet; another
placed a stone basin of water on the table, so that the traveller could
bathe face and hands.

The horse came, was declared fit, and the heavy bridle and saddle put
on the animal. The caballero, refreshed, mounted and gathered up the
reins.

“A bottle of wine and a package of cold mutton, caballero,” the padre
said, offering them. “No matter how urgent a man’s business, he must
eat and drink to maintain his strength.”

“I thank you, padre. I would give you a piece of gold, if I did not
know you would refuse it. You have given me much--give me now your
blessing and let me go on my way. It is a score of miles to Reina de
Los Angeles, I understand, and I would reach that pueblo by nightfall.”

The padre gave his blessing, and stepped nearer the horse’s head,
seeming to look at the bridle.

“On the north side of the plaza at Reina de Los Angeles,” he said,
“there is a certain inn where some travellers would be none too safe.
As you know, these are turbulent times. On the south side, however,
just around the corner from the chapel, is a pretentious house of adobe
inhabited by a pious man known as Gonzales. In that house a traveller
of the right sort may sleep with reason to believe that his throat will
not be slit before he awakens.”

“I understand, and thank you.”

“You may say that Fray Felipe vouches for you as a gentleman of
honesty.”

“Thank you again, padre. But how can you vouch for me, never having
seen me before?”

“A good priest is able to read men as well as books, caballero. I once
knew a pirate who was at heart an honest man.”

“I am not sure that I gather your full meaning, but I take it for
granted, padre. If you will allow me, I may drop the hint that another
traveller will be along the highway before many hours, coming from the
north. If he is riding a horse to death, it would be a pious act to
delay him until the animal is refreshed.”

“Though you tell me this, having just done your best to slay a mule, I
am of your opinion in the matter. _Adios_, caballero!”

“_Adios_, padre! Your kindness will not be forgotten.”

The caballero put spurs to the horse’s flanks and dashed down the
highway. This was different from riding the mule, for the padre had
supplied him with a noble steed fresh from pasturage, an animal of
spirit eager to cover broad miles at a rapid gait.

He passed other riders now and then, the most of them bound for the
north. Frequently there were flocks of sheep; here and there herds of
cattle grazed beside the highway. Carts drawn by oxen rumbled toward
the mission, carrying loads of grain; lumbering carreta went by, in
which elderly _señoras_ rode, going from one rancho to another, and at
times a dimpled _señorita_ accompanied by a grim _duenna_.

Evening was descending as he neared Reina de Los Angeles. His body
ached, he scarcely could keep his eyes open. Without stopping his
horse, he drank the wine and ate the cold meat the padre had provided.
As he approached nearer the pueblo he forced himself to become alert
again and take stock of his surroundings. He slowed down his mount so
as not to attract undue attention. At the edge of the plaza he stopped
and looked about.

He saw the chapel, made out the inn regarding which Padre Felipe had
warned him, discerned the residence of Gonzales. Toward this he rode,
stopping at the rear and ordering an Indian to fetch out the master. A
few minutes passed and Gonzales stood before him.

“Well, caballero?” he asked.

“Fray Felipe of San Fernando says that you are an honest man, and
vouches for me being one, though he never set eyes on me until this
day.”

“The good padre seldom makes a mistake in estimating a man.”

“I believe he did say that once he knew a pirate with an honest heart.
I have ridden night and day without rest, _señor_. I do not wish for
food at present, yet I would have my horse cared for, and I would like
to sleep soundly until an hour before dawn. Fray Felipe assured me a
man could do that in your house without having his throat slit before
morning.”

“That is true, caballero,” Gonzales said, smiling a little. “The Indian
will care for your horse. Enter, and I will have your couch prepared,
and sit up myself to watch over you. You may trust me, caballero. I am
that pirate of whom the good padre spoke!”



CHAPTER III

MYSTERIES


It was still dark when Gonzales entered the room with a candle and
shook the caballero until he was awake. The rider of the highway found
that his clothes had been brushed and neatly folded, that his boots had
been greased, and that a huge stone basin filled with cool water stood
ready.

He plunged his head in the water, dried his face, and went to the
adjoining room after dressing, there to find a table heaped high with
food. The caballero ate ravenously, scarcely speaking. An Indian
entered and spoke to Gonzales in whispers.

“Your horse is ready, _señor_,” Gonzales said. “It is a fit animal,
able to cover many miles during a day. I have no wish to bereft myself
of your companionship by sending you on your way, yet perhaps it would
suit your purpose best to be well on the road to San Juan Capistrano by
daybreak.”

“Your idea is an excellent one, _señor_.”

“There is nothing more I can do to serve you?”

“You have been kindness itself.”

“There is, perhaps, some message?”

“Nothing of prime importance at this time, _señor_. I am eager to reach
San Diego de Alcalá at the earliest possible moment.”

“If you need an Indian----”

“The highway stretches plainly before one, _señor_, and an Indian would
but delay me.”

“I understand that these are turbulent times----”

“So the good Fray Felipe said at San Fernando. No doubt it is a true
word.”

“You mystify me, _señor_, in a measure. Yet a man should not speculate
regarding that which does not concern him.”

“Very true, Señor Gonzales. I might mention that another traveller may
journey along El Camino Real at an early day, as soon as he can procure
a horse at Santa Barbara, where I left him behind. I doubt whether he
will receive cordial welcome from Fray Felipe--as you say, the good
padre is an excellent judge of men. It would not desolate me much if
this person were delayed now and then.”

“Ah! His name?”

“He travels incognito with a pass signed by his excellency, I believe.”

“Then--?” There was a puzzled expression on Gonzales’ face.

“I travel in such manner myself.”

“Still, I do not see----”

“It is not for me to criticise his excellency, yet I may say that on
a busy day he might issue a pass by mistake, or without having proper
investigation.”

“Can you not speak to me as man to man, _señor_?”

“I regret that I have no information that may be given you. And I must
be on my way. Here is a piece of gold----”

“Not from you, _señor_.”

“Perhaps you are making a mistake. Perhaps you think me a man I am not.
I have given you no reason to believe----”

“If I made a mistake, _señor_, then Fray Felipe of San Fernando makes
one also, and I have learned to trust his judgment.”

“Then I thank you for your hospitality and kindness,” the caballero
replied.

Gonzales led the way out of the house to where the horse was waiting
beside the adobe wall. He held a stirrup while the caballero mounted.

“You know the way?” he asked.

“Until this journey, I never have been south of Monterey,” the rider
answered.

“Once you are away from the pueblo the highway is plainly to be seen.
I have had my own horse made ready and will accompany you for a short
distance.”

“I thank you again, _señor_.”

The Indian led out the second horse. Gonzales mounted, and they started
out across the plaza, to follow a tiny trail that ran from one side of
it between two rows of Indian huts. No word was spoken until they were
a mile from the pueblo. Daybreak showed the dusty highway stretching
toward the south, twisting like a great serpent across the land.

“Here I leave you,” Gonzales said. “I wish you good fortune, _señor_,
and am yours to command if there are things you wish done. If the times
are indeed turbulent, as has been intimated, perhaps my old trade of
pirate will stand me in good stead. _Adios_, caballero! My blessings go
with you!”

“Having been blessed by both padre and pirate, I can scarcely go
wrong,” the caballero replied.

He raised his hand in salute, whirled his horse, touched the animal
with his spurs and galloped toward the south, sending up great clouds
of dust behind him. Gonzales watched him for several minutes, then,
shaking his head in perplexity, turned and started back toward Reina de
Los Angeles.

Now that he was on the highway again, the caballero became alert,
watching the trail whenever he topped a hill, hand on pistol-butt where
brush edged the road and made an ambush possible.

Sixty miles to the south was San Juan Capistrano, and the caballero did
not spare his horse. During the morning he saw few men, either red or
white. In the distance, at times, he could see the white buildings of
some rancho, and grazing herds, and frequently a small orchard.

Then, as he neared the mission, he came upon scenes of activity,
oxen-drawn carts loaded with grain, carreta, squads of Indians working
on the highway as punishment for some trivial offence.

The miles flew beneath his horse’s hoofs, and in time he could see the
mission building glistening in the sun, throngs of neophytes at work,
scores of children playing about the walls. The children scattered
at his approach, to stand, half in fear and half in curiosity, some
distance away and regard him thoughtfully. He dismounted stiffly, but
no man gave him greeting. Leading his horse he walked to the door of
the nearest storehouse. A fray came out and faced him.

“I am journeying to San Diego de Alcalá, and have need of a fresh
mount,” the caballero said. “I will trade or purchase.”

“I have no horse for you, _señor_.”

“Nonsense! San Juan Capistrano is well known for its breed. At Santa
Barbara they told me you were to send them steeds within the month, in
exchange for fruit and wine.”

“We sell and give horses to whom we will, _señor_, and withhold them
from others.”

“What is the meaning of that?” the caballero demanded. His face had
flushed with sudden anger, for he did not like the fray’s tone or
manner. “I have a pass here signed by His Excellency the Governor. You
will scarcely refuse to accommodate me now, I take it.”

The fray read the pass and handed it back.

“It passes my understanding that you possess such a paper,” he said.
“Yet, on the other hand, it is not a matter to excite wonder. It is
understood that the Governor is not particular to whom he issues
passes.”

“I shall take it upon myself to see you punished for your insolence,
fray! A man who wears a gown should know more of courtesy.”

“There is no horse here for you, _señor_. I have spoken.”

“You are not the only horse owner in San Juan Capistrano!”

“No man here will sell you one, nor give it you, nor make an exchange.”

“And why is that?”

“Need you question?”

“Most certainly I question. This is the first discourtesy I have
found along El Camino Real. Even the soldiers at the Santa Barbara
presidio aided me on my way, gave me food and wine. The good fray at
San Fernando recommended me to a friend in Reina de Los Angeles. And
here, it appears, one cannot even buy a horse with gold. I await your
explanation, fray.”

“I have no explanation to give you, _señor_, nor do I recognise your
right to one. If the frailes to the north have been misled, I have
nothing to say. We of the south, however, have scant courtesy for men
of a certain stamp.”

“Now by the good saints----!”

“The good saints are better off your lips, _señor_!” cried the fray
angrily.

Neophytes had been crowding about, drawn by the quarrel. The caballero
whirled upon them, to find some grinning. His hand dropped to his
sword-hilt.

“The road stretches toward the south, _señor_,” the fray resumed. “And
we are crowded here in San Juan Capistrano.”

“You are ordering me away, perhaps?”

“I am leaving it to your good judgment to go.”

“I am not a man to be trifled with, fray. This discourtesy is like to
cost you dear!”

“I pay my debts, _señor_. If it costs me, I pay.”

“You refuse to respect the Governor’s pass?”

“I refuse to recognise your right to have it,” the fray replied. He
turned about and started inside the storehouse. The caballero took a
quick step forward and clutched the other by the shoulder and whirled
him around.

“Cloth or no cloth, no man treats me like this!” he exclaimed. “A
horse--immediately!”

The fray uttered an exclamation; the neophytes crowded closer.
Releasing his man, the caballero drew his sword and turned upon them.

“Back, dogs!” he cried. “I do not like your stench! And you, fray,
fetch me a horse, before I run you through!”

“You----!” The fray seemed to grow taller in his sudden anger. “You
dare to threaten me, _señor_? A man of your stripe----”

“I have had enough of this mystery!”

“Out of my sight! Take your way to the south, or the north if it
pleases you, but quit San Juan Capistrano this minute! Else I will not
be responsible----”

“For what! For what may happen to me?” The caballero laughed aloud,
half in anger, half in jest. His sword described an arc. But the
neophytes did not fall back from before him; the fray made a sign and
they closed in.

His back against the wall of the storehouse, the caballero swept his
blade through the air again, and held his pistol in his left hand. The
Indians hesitated a moment, the caballero advanced.

“Back!” the caballero cried.

Again they closed in, rushed. A screech of pain came from the first he
touched with the blade. His pistol spoke and a man fell wounded. In
that instant, as they hesitated, he was among them, his blade darting
here and there. Purposely he avoided clashing with the fray, always
keeping neophytes between them, for to wound a fray, he knew, would be
to make bloodthirsty wretches of the red men. Foot by foot he fought
his way to where the horse was standing with lowered head.

He drove back those nearest, then sprang to the saddle and dashed away.
The guitar had been fastened to the saddle, and now it snapped its
cord and fell to the ground. Laughing loudly, the caballero turned his
horse, galloped back among the neophytes, scattering them right and
left, swung down from his saddle and caught up the instrument, waved it
above his head in derision, and was away again.

A pistol spoke behind him, a bullet whistled past his head, but he rode
unscathed. A mile away he stopped the horse to wipe the bloody blade on
his cloak and return it to its scabbard.

“A courteous reception indeed!” he muttered, and gave his horse the
spurs.

A journey of twenty-five miles stretched before him to the next mission
in the chain, San Luis Rey de Francia. He did not urge his mount to its
utmost, for he did not want to exhaust the beast, and he knew better
time would be made travelling a level gait.

Here the highway ran along the sea, and for a time the caballero
allowed his horse to walk knee-deep in the tumbling water. Anger still
flushed his face; his eyes still were blazing. With a fresh horse
procured at San Juan Capistrano he would have been able to reach San
Luis Rey de Francia long before nightfall; whereas, because of his
reception at the last mission, he would reach it after dark, if at all,
for the hills were near, and common report had it that even daylight
riding there was perilous enough for a gentleman unattended.

He drove his horse up the slope and to the highway proper again and
looked ahead. A dust cloud was in the distance, and in time he made
out a herd of cattle being driven along the road. He saw, as he neared
them, that there were two Indian herders, and stopped to recharge
his pistol. They might prove to be harmless neophytes; they might be
thieving gentiles running off mission cattle, and ready to give battle
to a traveller.

He stood his horse at one side of the highway as they passed, alert
for trouble. They were talking, he could see, and pointing at him, but
he could not hear their words. Long after they had gone by, the two
Indians turned frequently to look in his direction.

The caballero rode on, with some speed now, since it was growing late
in the afternoon. Overhanging crags, jumbles of rock, clumps of scrawny
trees cast shadows across the highway and furnished cover for bandits,
but he met with no adventure. Through the twilight he galloped,
stopping before each hidden curve to listen, straining his eyes to
discern the presence of a foe.

Night came, and in the distance he saw lights at San Luis Rey de
Francia.

“Let us hope there are men of brains to be found here,” the caballero
muttered. “I must have food, drink, rest. It does not matter so much
about a horse now, since my own will be refreshed by morning.”

Now there were huts beside the highway, but all in them seemed
sleeping. Dogs howled as he approached. Ahead of him, a door was thrown
open, and a streak of light pierced the darkness. He rode toward it.

An Indian stood there holding a crude torch above his head, an aged
Indian with scraggy hair and wrinkled face.

“I want food, rest,” the caballero said. “Where sleeps a fray that will
awaken easily?”

The Indian stared at him in astonishment.

“You seek a fray?” he asked.

“Else I would not ask the whereabouts of one.”

“It is a bold thing to do, _señor_. It would be better, would it not,
to accept the hospitality of my poor hut, and be sure you are with
friends? Scant welcome will you get from a fray. Enter, _señor_, and
honour my poor dwelling. I have food and wine, and a couch. I will see
that your horse has attention, and all night I’ll watch, and before the
dawn comes I’ll awaken you and send you on your way.”

“This thing passes my understanding, yet I am weary enough to accept
the quickest relief,” the caballero said. “If you attempt treachery----”

“Then may I die, _señor_.”

“That probably would come to pass in such event.”

He dismounted and began taking off the saddle. The Indian ran to help
him and got a halter for use instead of the bridle. The horse was
picketed beside the road and thrown hay and grain. Then the Indian led
the way into the hut.

It was of adobe, small, round. A table was built into one wall, a bunk
into another. While the caballero sat on the bunk to rest, his host put
out cold meat and wine and dried wheat-paste. The guest ate, and not
sparingly, and then removed his boots and threw himself down on the
couch.

“I will sit outside and watch the door, _señor_,” the Indian said. “You
may sleep without fear.”

“But with a pistol ready at my hand,” the caballero growled.

After the Indian had gone, he arose and extinguished the torch, and
listened for a moment at the door, until he was sure his host was
squatting there. It was troubled sleep he had, for the surroundings
were peculiar, and he did not fully trust his host.

A step beside the couch caused him to awaken and spring to his feet,
pistol held ready.

“Within an hour, _señor_, it will be dawn,” he heard the voice of the
old Indian say. “I have more wine and food ready, and water fresh from
the spring. It is better that you are gone before others awake, then
none will know of your passing.”

The caballero ate again, and followed his host outside, carrying saddle
and bridle. When the horse was ready, he mounted, then tossed the
native a coin.

“No, _señor_--not from you, if you please,” the Indian said. “It has
been a pleasure----”

“White man and red--both give me hospitality and refuse payment,”
remarked the caballero. “At times I think myself the most fortunate
of men, at other times the most unlucky. One fray aids me and another
refuses to sell me a horse. It is a peculiar world!”

“The _señor_ will not forget me--that is all I ask,” the Indian
muttered.

“Be assured I will not! _Adios!_”

“_’Dios!_”

The caballero trotted his steed for a mile, then broke into a gallop.
Forty miles more, and he would be at San Diego de Alcalá, his journey’s
end. He laughed aloud as the dawn came and showed him the sea sparkling
in the distance. His spirits had revived wonderfully.

“Poor self-styled Juan who once owned a mule!” he murmured. “He loses
a couple of pieces of gold, I take it, since it is not to be believed
that he has reached the goal before me. I wonder what would have
happened if I had gone to the inn on the plaza at Reina de Los Angeles?”

He was in the hills again now, yet the highway was seldom masked, and
he felt secure in the knowledge that a foe could not approach without
being seen. The miles flew beneath his horse’s hoofs. A cool breeze
came in from the sea and neutralised the heat of the sun. In the
distance he could see a broad valley, and he knew that the end of his
journey was near.

Another ten miles, and then, stopping his horse on the crest of a hill,
he saw San Diego de Alcalá before him. Near the shore of the bay was
the presidio, topping a knoll. Six miles up the valley was the mission
proper, and near it an orchard surrounded by a wall, and fields of
green.

“’Tis a bit of paradise in the wilderness!” the caballero said aloud.
“And there is an angel in it, I have heard.”

He chuckled and urged the horse on. Purposely he avoided the presidio
for the time being and made his way toward the mission. Only a few
neophytes were to be seen, and even they disappeared as he approached.

The mission buildings formed three sides of a square; the fourth side
was an adobe wall nearly ten feet high. Through a space between two of
the buildings the caballero rode his horse. Not a human being was to be
seen in the plaza.

“This is mighty peculiar,” the caballero muttered.

He dismounted and let the horse stand in the shade of the wall. Every
door was closed, even those of the padres’ quarters, the hospital, the
guest house.

“Awake, good people!” he cried. “Is it the fashion here to take a
siesta in the cool of the day?”

The door of the padres’ quarters did not open; no big-eyed Indian child
ran out to stare at him, finger in mouth, half curious and half afraid;
no man or woman appeared from a hut.

He slapped the dust from his clothes and started across the plaza
toward the padres’ quarters, determined to pound on the big door until
it was opened and the lethargy of the place explained.

Around the end of the wall there came a neophyte stooping beneath a bag
of grain.

“Good day, _señor_!” said the caballero. “I am glad to find someone
alive.”

The Indian stared at him, hesitated a moment, then walked on without
speaking.

The door of the storehouse opened, and another man walked into the
plaza, one who carried a quarter of beef on his shoulder. He followed
a narrow path that ran toward one of the huts, so that he had to pass
within a dozen feet of the caballero.

“Perhaps here is a man with brains,” the new-comer thought. Aloud, he
said: “_Señor_, it is a brilliant day!”

The man who carried the beef did not slacken his pace, but he glanced
at the caballero from beneath shaggy brows, and passed without making a
reply. Behind him in the narrow path stood one astonished and angry.

“It is a settlement of imbeciles and deaf mutes, this San Diego de
Alcalá!” he growled.

Now there was a burst of laughter from the end of the wall, and into
view came an Indian girl of perhaps fourteen, her black hair streaming
down her back, her feet and legs bare, her arms filled with wild
blossoms. Behind her was a youth a few years her senior. When they saw
the caballero they stopped quickly, and the youth said something to the
girl, then they ceased their laughter and hurried along the path.

“_Señor! Señorita!_” said the caballero, removing his sombrero and
bowing to the ground.

The youth growled something beneath his breath and hurried on without
responding to the greeting; the girl tilted her nose and she would not
meet the caballero’s eyes. And so they passed him and continued across
the plaza toward the padres’ quarters, not once looking back.

“Mute fools!” the caballero growled, his face flushed because of his
embarrassment.



CHAPTER IV

A COYOTE HOWLS


Adjoining the quarters of the padres was a long adobe building used as
a storehouse, and sounds indicated that a man was at work inside. It
was towards the storehouse that the caballero now hurried, something of
anger in his manner, his face still flushed, his dark eyes snapping and
his chin thrust out in aggressive fashion.

Seeing a face peering at him from one of the windows, he gave it scant
attention, but lifted the latch, and the door of the storehouse flew
open at his touch.

For an instant he stood in the doorway trying to see, for the sun
outside was bright, and inside there was a semi-gloom. Then he made out
a rough counter, piles of skins from cattle and sheep, sacks of grain,
casks of tallow, bolts of imported goods, and a man who paced back and
forth before a rough desk, his hands clasped behind his back, his head
bowed on his breast.

“Good day, _señor_!” said the caballero.

The other stopped and raised his head, looked the caballero straight in
the eyes, then, without a word, stepped behind the counter and busied
himself arranging some bolts of cloth on a shelf.

“I greeted you good day, _señor_!”

Still there was no reply, nor did the man behind the counter turn to
face the one who spoke.

“Is there man, woman or child in the mission who can speak Spanish,
native or the sign language?” demanded the caballero now, angrily,
stepping up to the counter and placing both his hands upon it. “Is this
the hospitality of which San Diego de Alcalá has been so proud? Those
persons I met in the plaza refused to answer my polite salutations. And
you--I take it you are a sort of manager here, or superintendent, or
clerk to the padres, or something of the sort--seem to have no word for
me, not even the one common courtesy demands you should use in response
to a greeting!”

He waited; but an answer did not come. The man behind the counter had
finished with the bolts of cloth, and now was taking from the shelf
jars of honey and olives and oil, and putting them back exactly as they
had been before, showing plainly that he was busying himself merely to
avoid making a reply.

“Has life in the bright sun dulled your wits?” demanded the caballero,
now thoroughly angry. “Have you all taken a vow not to speak until such
and such a time? Could I get your kind attention, perhaps, if I made
a purchase? One would think an Indian attack had left you all without
tongues in your heads!”

Still there came no reply from the man behind the counter.

The door opened, and a giant of a neophyte entered. He gave the
caballero a glance, seemed to throw back his shoulders, and hurried up
to the counter.

“A quarter of mutton, Señor Lopez,” he said. “The padre said I was to
have it until the grain is harvested.”

“Certainly, Pedro,” came the reply.

Señor Lopez turned and smiled at the man he had called Pedro, and went
to the rear of the room, from where he carried the meat. Pedro took the
mutton upon his shoulder, and Señor Lopez followed him to the door,
opening it and holding it wide so that the other could pass out. For
a moment they talked in low tones, then Pedro hurried away, and Lopez
closed the door and went back behind the counter.

“So you can use your voice when it pleases you to do so, it seems,”
said the caballero. “Suppose you use a portion of it now, in answer to
some questioning of mine. If it is necessary, I’ll pay for it. Give me
this much voice, Señor Lopez!”

He threw a gold coin down upon the counter so that it rang. Lopez
turned slowly and faced him, looked him straight in the eyes a moment,
then went back to the shelf and began arranging the jars again.

If the eyes of the caballero had snapped before, they blazed now. He
placed both hands upon the counter as if to spring over it and throttle
the man who refused to speak, but he seemed to decide against that, and
the smile came upon his face again, only the quality of the smile was
not the same.

On one end of the counter was a heap of small stone jars, filled,
evidently with fruit and oil. The caballero picked up a bar of metal
from the counter, walked deliberately to the heap of jars, and crashed
the heavy bar down among them.

Señor Lopez jumped as if he had been shot, and turned to see the
caballero standing before the ruin, the inscrutable smile still upon
his lips. He raised the bar again, and again he crashed it among the
jars, sending fruit and oil to the floor.

“_Señor!_” Lopez cried.

“I thought that would make you find your voice. As for the damage,
I’ll pay it. Now suppose you open your lips and explain this strange
conduct, before I get genuinely angry and carry on the work of
destruction.”

Their eyes clashed for a moment, and then Lopez spoke:

“I open my lips this once, and after that, _señor_, perhaps you will go
back up El Camino Real and admit yourself a beaten man. San Diego de
Alcalá has a name for hospitality, it is true, but there is none even
here for Captain Fly-by-Night.”

“It seems to me,” said the caballero, “that I have heard that name
before.”

“It is known from San Francisco de Asis to San Diego de Alcalá,
_señor_, without credit to the man who bears it.”

“Indeed?”

“We play at words, _señor_, and that is not necessary. News of your
coming was received several days ago. When the news went up El Camino
Real that the good Señor Fernandez had gone the way of all flesh and
left to his fair daughter, Anita, and her very distant relative,
Rojerio Rocha, the fortune and broad acres he had acquired by a
lifetime of hard work and danger, you boasted, before the body of the
_señor_ was scarcely cold in the ground, that here was a fair maid and
a fortune to be won, and that you could and would win them.”

“I boasted that, eh?”

“’Tis well known, Captain Fly-by-Night. You boasted loudly. Even when
it became known that Rojerio Rocha was to come down El Camino Real from
distant San Francisco de Asis and wed his distant relative, and be the
head of the great rancho, you boasted that, betrothal or no, you’d win
Señorita Anita and the rancho would be yours.”

“Indeed, _señor_?”

“Many a mission and presidio, and many a rancho, you have visited
during your career, Captain Fly-by-Night, always to leave behind you
broken hearts and empty purses. Your skill with the cards and dice,
it is said, is such as to be almost supernatural. There is another
explanation for it, of course. Your way with women, too, has been made
notorious. But never did you come near San Diego de Alcalá while Señor
Fernandez was alive, knowing well what to expect if you did. Now that
he is dead, you dare to come, after making your boasts.”

“I am learning things regarding myself,” said the caballero.

“When we heard of your boast, we considered what to do,” Lopez went
on. “Did the padres let the men of the mission whip you and send you
back up El Camino Real, as they should, you could say that you had no
chance, one man against so many score, and, moreover, the well-known
hospitality of San Diego de Alcalá would be outraged. So we decided
upon another course, Captain Fly-by-Night.

“The country is both long and broad, and we do not say you cannot
live in it. But so far as San Diego de Alcalá and its people are
concerned--ranch owner, fray, neophyte or soldier--you do not exist,
_señor_. No man, woman or child will speak to you. You can purchase
neither food nor wine here. The sweet _señorita_ whose name you have
insulted with your boasts will pass within half a dozen feet of you and
see you not. You will be a nothing, not given as much consideration as
a coyote. Do you understand me, _señor_?”

“You speak plainly enough,” the caballero replied.

“If you wish to remain under those conditions, we will make no effort
to prevent you. When Rojerio Rocha arrives--and he is expected within
a few days--and weds our fair Anita, being then in the position of a
husband, he may see fit to chastise you for your ill-timed boasts. If
you care to admit that you boasted once too often, and wish to return
to the north, there is grain and hay for your horse at the end of the
wall, and we will not call it theft if you feed your animal. Your
absence would be well worth the price of a few measures of grain.”

“That is all you have to say, Señor Lopez?”

“I have opened my lips to tell you how things stand, Captain
Fly-by-Night. Hereafter they shall remain closed in your presence.”

“If there should be some mistake about that boast----”

Lopez looked at the caballero, then turned toward the shelf and began
arranging the jars again. The anger was dying out of the face of
the caballero now, and the smile that came upon his lips was more
inscrutable than before.

“At least, I leave the coin in payment for the damage I have caused,”
he said; and started toward the door.

He heard the quick step of Lopez behind him, but did not turn. He threw
the door open wide, and stepped out. Something whizzed past his head
and struck the ground before him. He looked at it--the coin he had left
on the counter.

As he walked back across the plaza to where he had left his horse, the
caballero chuckled like a man well pleased. There was no anger in his
face or bearing now, no resentment, rather lively satisfaction. He
passed the giant Pedro talking with another neophyte, and when they
turned their backs to him and continued their conversation as if he had
not been near he laughed outright.

He led his horse from the plaza and down the slope, and there he
removed saddle and bridle and picketed the animal where green grass
grew along a trickling brook. Walking some distance from the mission
he shot a rabbit, and, carrying the game back to where he had left the
horse, he cleaned it with his knife, washed it in the creek, and hung
it up on a forked stick.

Then he arranged dry moss and grass for a fire, being particular to
build it where it could be seen easily from the guest house of the
mission and from the padres’ quarters; and he knew that every action
was being watched, that men and women might keep silent, but could not
curb their curiosity.

He had no flint and steel, neither did he know how to make fire by the
Indian method, and he found himself now facing a predicament. But there
were glass buttons on his cloak, and from one of them he made a burning
glass, and crouching over the dry grass focused the sun’s beams and in
time had a blaze.

He cooked the rabbit, ate it without salt, put more fuel on the fire,
then spread his cloak on the ground, picked up the guitar, and began
playing softly. Presently he sang, his voice ringing out across the
plaza and reaching the ears of those in the mission.

Now and then an Indian child came to the end of the adobe wall and
watched and listened. Men and women passed from hut to hut, but none
paid the slightest attention to him. Smoke poured from chimneys, and
there were odours of meals being prepared. His singing and playing
over for a time, the caballero sat with his back against a rock, his
sombrero tilted over his eyes, and rested.

Presently he saw the door of the guest house open, and out of it came
a vision of female loveliness that caused the caballero to catch his
breath. Behind her walked an elderly _duenna_ of proud carriage.

“This will be the fair Anita, with some _señora_ in attendance,” the
caballero chuckled. “I wonder if they intend paying me a visit?”

It looked it, for the girl led the way down the slope and toward the
creek, walking with head proudly lifted, the elderly _señora_ tripping
at her heels. They passed within twenty feet of the caballero, but the
girl did not look his way. The other woman, however, glanced at him
from the corners of her eyes, and he smiled at her curiosity.

They stopped beside the creek, and the girl filled a small jar with
water, and began arranging wild flowers in it, while the _señora_ stood
beside her, looking down the valley toward the presidio.

“To think,” voiced Anita Fernandez, “that a husband is to come to me up
El Camino Real all the way from San Francisco de Asis--a husband and
distant relative at one and the same time! To marry a man I never have
seen before--is that not a hardship, Señora Vallejo?”

“Rojerio Rocha,” Señora Vallejo replied, “undoubtedly will be a
gentleman, a pattern of a man and an excellent husband. There will be
ample time for courtship after he arrives; there is no need for rushing
the marriage ceremony. You do not have to wed him if he is not a proper
man.”

“But my father wished it,” Anita said.

“Your father knew that Rojerio Rocha had been left without much of the
world’s goods. He is of a very distant branch of the family; yet your
father desired to see him better equipped with wealth. He desired your
marriage to Rojerio Rocha, knowing the man’s good blood, but above all
things he would desire, were he still on earth, your happiness. You can
make up your mind, my dear Anita, after Rojerio Rocha arrives.”

“I wonder what he will be like, how he will appear, whether he can
smile and sing, and speak kindly.”

“All of that, whether it be Rocha or Fernandez blood in his veins,”
said Señora Vallejo.

“I shall, indeed, be glad to see him. How long it has been since a
stranger of quality came to us out of the north!”

The man beside the fire chuckled at that, and got up to walk slowly
down the slope toward them. Six feet away he swept his sombrero from
his head and bowed his best, and he smiled when he spoke.

“I believe I have the pleasure of addressing Señorita Anita Fernandez?”
he said.

“Señora Vallejo, did you speak?” asked the girl, without looking at the
man beside her.

“’Twas a coyote barked,” Señora Vallejo replied.

“Indeed, my poor voice may seem like the barking of a coyote to one
with a true musical ear,” the caballero said, “though some have said it
is near perfect in tone.”

“Are you mumbling, Señora Vallejo?” Anita demanded.

“I am not, Anita, dear. It is the wind whistling through the olive
trees.”

“Ah! We grow with acquaintance!” said the caballero, lightly. “At first
my voice sounded like the barking of a coyote, and now it sounds like
the whistling of the wind through the trees. We grow more musical,
indeed.”

Señora Vallejo bit her lip, and resolutely kept her face from that of
the man standing beside her.

“Do you suppose, Señora Vallejo,” asked Anita, “that the odious Captain
Fly-by-Night will have the audacity to come to San Diego de Alcalá, as
he boasted he would do? Has the man no brains at all, no sense of the
fitness of things? San Diego de Alcalá is no place for gamblers such as
he. He pollutes the plaza if he walks across it!”

“No doubt the creature is senseless enough to come,” said Señora
Vallejo. She dabbed at her face with a lace handkerchief, and, in
dabbing, dropped it. In an instant the caballero was down upon one
knee, had picked up the handkerchief, and, remaining on one knee,
tendered it.

“Permit me, _señora_,” he said.

Señora Vallejo’s hand went out, but there flashed from the eyes of
Anita Fernandez a warning, and the hand was withdrawn. The caballero
arose and tendered the handkerchief again, to have Señora Vallejo turn
her back and face the girl.

“Perhaps, Anita dear, we should return now,” she said. “Evening
approaches, and there will be a fog rolling up the valley.”

“As you please, Señora Vallejo.”

The girl turned from the creek and started walking up the slope. The
caballero stood in the path before her, determined. Anita Fernandez
stopped, and seemed to look through him and at the mission beyond. From
the adobe wall hurried Pedro, the giant neophyte, who had been watching
and feared an affront to the women.

“You are being annoyed, _señorita_?” he asked.

“How could that be?” she demanded, laughing lightly. “There is none
here to annoy me, unless it be Señora Vallejo.”

“I beg your pardon, _señorita_. I thought I heard someone speak.”

“’Twas but the distant barking of a coyote, Pedro. You may follow us to
the guest house, if you wish. I will give you something for your little
girl.”

They started toward the caballero again and for a moment it seemed that
they must recognise his presence. But Anita Fernandez had a subterfuge
to prevent that. Just before reaching him, she turned aside, and the
others followed.

“I must speak to the padre about the neophytes allowing rubbish to
collect so near the mission,” she said. “It always should be burned.
Look at the stuff here!”

She pointed to the caballero’s cloak, and with one tiny foot she kicked
scornfully at the guitar. Then she swerved back toward the path again,
and the others followed her toward the plaza. The caballero picked up
the guitar and pressed his lips to the place where her foot had struck,
knowing well that Señora Vallejo was watching him, though she pretended
not to be.

He looked after them until the girl and woman had passed around the
end of the adobe wall and Pedro had gone to his own hut. Darkness was
gathering rapidly now; lights appeared in the buildings; before the
door of the storehouse sat a circle of men, talking and laughing,
sipping bowls of wine. Sitting on the ground, his back against a rock,
the caballero watched the scene.

“A beautiful woman,” he mused. “Proud, spirited, kind though she does
not suspect it, naturally intelligent, very much to be desired.”

One by one the lights in the buildings disappeared. The men before the
storehouse crept away to rest. A fray called to a neophyte standing
guard. And then there was no noise save for the singing of the breeze
through the orchard, and the distant howling of a coyote.

Presently the caballero arose and picked up his guitar, and crept up
the slope until he reached the adobe wall. He followed it to the end of
the plaza; made his way slowly through the darkness to the guest house.
There he stationed himself below an open window and began playing
softly. Several minutes he played, knowing a neophyte stood a score
of feet away, watching; and then he began to sing a love song of Old
Spain, a song of strong men and fair women. Between two verses he heard
the voice of Señora Vallejo.

“Anita, child, do you hear?”

“Yes, Señora Vallejo,” the girl replied, clearly. “The coyotes are
growing bold again. One is howling now beneath my window.”



CHAPTER V

TWO GOOD SAMARITANS


It is a matter of history--that big rain of a certain year. The
torrents poured from the sky at an unexpected time until the country
was drenched and tiny streams swollen, and watercourses that had
been dry were turned into turbulent yellow floods that carried on
the surface brush and grass and logs from the hills, menacing many a
rancho, undermining huts and adobe houses, ruining wells.

Returning from his ineffectual serenade, the caballero observed that
the stars were disappearing, but believed it was because of a fog that
came from the sea. As he reached the place where he had picketed his
horse and built his fire, a drop of water splashed on his cheek. At the
most, he anticipated nothing worse than half an hour’s shower, and so
he merely built up his fire and put some dry moss and grass to one side
under his cloak, and prepared to sleep on the ground.

He slept soundly after his long journey and the unexpected events of
the past two days. He awoke to find the fire out and a chill in his
body, to find that water was flowing down the slope about him, and the
ground but a sea of mud, with the torrent continuing to pour from the
sky.

It was not more than midnight and the storm gave no indication of
ceasing. The caballero stood up and threw aside his sodden cloak,
picked up guitar and sword and pistol, and left the camp to hurry in
the direction of the mission orchard.

It was so dark he could see nothing, and he could not locate a path.
Roots half washed from the ground tripped him, water flowed down the
back of his neck. On and on he stumbled, until he ran against the
orchard wall. He managed to get over it, carrying his property, and
searched for a place where the trees would shield him partially from
the storm.

He came to a giant palm and crept close to the bole where the wind
drove the rain against him, but where it was not quite so bad as in the
open. And there the caballero stood, hour after hour, gradually getting
colder and more miserable, hugging his guitar under one arm and his
sword under the other.

Dawn came, a grey dawn that made the world look dismal. He left the
semi-protection of the palm, went over the wall, and hurried back to
his camp. His horse was standing with back to the tempest, his head
hanging low, his tail tucked between his legs. Water was pouring down
the slope; the dry grass he had gathered was drenched; the little creek
was a roaring torrent rushing down the valley toward the sea.

The caballero was cold, hungry, miserable. Across the plaza he could
see smoke pouring from the chimneys, and to his nostrils came the odour
of food being prepared. The mission bells rang. Neophytes left their
huts to hurry toward the chapel. Señor Lopez came from the storehouse
and went to the guest house, carrying a huge umbrella made from skins,
and there Anita Fernandez and Señora Vallejo joined him and walked
across the plaza to the church beneath the protecting parasol. A fray
was placing stepping stones in the mud before the chapel door.

“I must have a fire!” the caballero remarked, to nobody in particular.

He walked some distance up the swollen creek, until he came to a
ledge of rock, and there he found some dry grass; but there was no
possibility, of course, of using the glass-button again, since the sun
was not shining. He collected a quantity of the grass and fired into it
with his pistol, but no spark caught. Again and again he fired, without
success, finally ceasing in disgust.

He went back and stood near the horse, looking up at the heavens. The
clouds were black, ominous; there was no decrease in the volume of
water that poured from the sky. There was no place near where he could
make a dry camp. And it was fire he needed--fire at which to warm
himself and dry his clothing and cook another rabbit, if he could kill
it.

For the remainder of his life he remembered that day and the two
following. Such misery he never had known before, nor knew afterward.
Now he crept into the wet orchard; now he braved the open on the slope.
At times he ran back and forth beside the raging creek, trying to warm
his blood by the exertion. Men and women of San Diego de Alcalá went
about their business, but none gave him attention.

Each hour seemed a day and each day a lifetime. His clothing was
soaked, his boots covered with muddy clay. He stood beside the horse
and looked at the mission buildings and at the smoke pouring from the
chimneys until he could bear to look no longer. Once he heard a child
laugh, and the laugh plunged him into the depths of despair.

He rattled the coins in his purse. Worthless they were here in San
Diego de Alcalá; and he would have traded them all for five minutes of
bright sunshine.

He began to grow desperate. Playing the game as the men and women of
the mission played it, they could not recognise his presence; so he
decided to walk boldly into the storehouse, to warm and dry himself
there, ignoring them as they ignored him. He would take what food he
desired, and throw money in payment for it down on the counter, and
walk out. They would have to recognise him to prevent it.

The caballero laughed wildly as he reached this decision and started up
the slope toward the plaza. He reached the door of the storehouse and
tried the latch, but the door was locked, for Señor Lopez had seen his
approach. He tried a window, and found that locked also. He went to the
guest house, to find the door fastened there.

For a moment he considered raiding one of the Indian huts, sword in
hand, but his pride came to him then; and he walked back down the
slope, his face flushed with shame because of what he already had done.
He would last it out, he determined! If he died of the cold and misery,
then he would die, but he would fight the battle alone without any
help from those of the mission.

And then he remembered the presidio.

Fool, not to have thought of it before! He laughed again, this time in
relief, as he put saddle and bridle on his horse, and then, waving his
hand in derision at the group of mission buildings, he galloped toward
the bay. There was the presidio only six miles away, where a caballero
could get food and wine and have companionship while he dried his
clothes before the roaring fire!

He rode like the wind along the highway, facing the storm as it blew in
from the sea, his horse running gladly, plunging down wet embankments,
splashing through the mud, wading streams where there had been no water
twenty-four hours before. Up the road toward the structure on the crest
of the knoll, the caballero forced his steed. Before the gate stood a
sentry with a musket on his arm. The sound of laughter came from the
barracks-room, and it carried cheer to the caballero’s heart. Smoke
poured from the chimney, the odour of cooking meat was in the damp air.

The sentry’s musket came up and his challenge rang out. Through the
gate the caballero could see an officer standing in the door of the
nearest building.

“Your business?” the sentry demanded.

“Take me to your commanding officer! Call an Indian to care for my
horse!”

The sentry’s cry was answered. A corporal came running across the
enclosure, an Indian at his heels. They stopped short when they saw the
caballero; the Indian looked frightened, the corporal grinned.

“Well?” he demanded.

“I want to see your commanding officer,” the caballero said. “I have
had enough rain without waiting here for you to make up your mind.”

“Dismount and follow me,” the corporal said.

The Indian went forward and took the horse by the bit. A muddy and
bedraggled caballero got stiffly out of the wet saddle and paced
through the sticky clay to the door of the barracks-room. The officer
was still standing there; he had scarcely moved.

“I want food, wine, a chance to dry my clothing and get warm,” the
caballero said. “There seems to be a superabundance of rain just now at
San Diego de Alcalá.”

“Did you ask hospitality at the mission?” the lieutenant wanted to know.

The caballero’s face flushed as he met the other’s eyes.

“Your manner,” he replied, “tells me you know of my reception at the
mission. I did not look for the same sort of reception here. I have a
pass from his excellency that should command respect.”

The caballero handed over the pass, which was wet, and the officer
glanced over it.

“The pass is regular, caballero,” he said, “except that it does not
name you. It cannot, therefore, have weight with me.”

“Do you mean to say you will not extend the ordinary hospitality of the
road?”

“In a few words I can tell you where this presidio stands regarding
yourself,” the lieutenant answered. “Your recent boast concerning an
estimable young lady is well known, Captain Fly-by-Night. Also is your
general reputation. Soldiers, ordinarily, welcome a man of your ilk, if
he is merry and given to gambling, even if he cheats with the cards.
But Señorita Anita Fernandez stands in the relation of daughter of our
company, _señor_. Not a man of the post who would not die for her.
And when the priests and people of the mission decide you are beneath
their notice, we of the presidio stand with them, even though in other
matters the mission and the presidio are as far apart as north and
south.”

“Indeed?”

“Indeed, caballero. In regard to the pass--so far as I know, it may
have been stolen. I’ll stand any consequences that may come from
refusing to honour it.”

They faced each other while a man could have counted ten, the eyes
of neither flinching, hands clenched, breath coming in quick gasps,
each waiting for the other to make the first move. Like lightning the
caballero’s mind acted then.

He looked into the future and into the past, considering things of
which the lieutenant did not know. And in that instant of time he
decided that it would be the honourable thing to accept a slight now
for the good that might come from it later.

“You refuse me hospitality?” he asked again.

“I do, _señor_.”

“There may come a time when I shall call you to account for it,
officer.”

“You cannot taunt me into a quarrel, caballero. It was expected that
such would be your method when you found yourself ostracized, and it
was agreed that none would accommodate you. An officer of standing,
moreover, does not fight with an adventurer who lives by his wits and
his ability to insult women and swindle men.”

The caballero choked in sudden rage and his hand went toward the hilt
of his sword. But thoughts of the future came to him again, and he took
a step backward and swept off his sombrero in a stately bow.

“For the time being, it shall be as you say, officer,” he said. “But
do not doubt that there will be a reckoning, and when it comes I shall
take the matter into my own hands, not hand you over to court-martial
for ignoring his excellency’s pass.”

He turned his back and started toward the gate.

“A moment, caballero,” the lieutenant called. “While we have decided
not to hold intercourse with you in a social way, it does not follow
that you are entirely ignored. There are alert eyes about you, _señor_.
And treason has a merited reward!”

“May I ask your meaning?”

“Leave a picketed horse long enough, _señor_, and he’ll throw himself
with his own rope. I trust my meaning is clear?”

“As clear as the sky at present, _señor_,” the caballero replied. “I
shall recommend to his excellency, when next I greet him, that he
place an officer with brains at San Diego de Alcalá!”

He sprang to the saddle and spurred the horse cruelly. Back along the
road toward the mission he urged the animal at utmost speed, careless
of the treacherous ground and of what a stumble might mean. Once more
he reached the slope before the mission, and picketed the horse. He
stacked the saddle and bridle together, got his guitar from a corner by
the orchard wall and put it with them, and covered all with his cloak.
Then he started up the slope, walking swiftly.

He had but a remnant of his pride left and did not think it necessary
under the circumstances to conserve that. He went around the end of the
wall and splashed across the plaza, scarcely looking at the neophytes
and frailes. Straight to the church he went, opened the door, and
entered. He made his way to the chapel. There was sanctuary; there none
could molest him without special order; and here he stubbornly decided
to remain.

But there was no warmth, no food, no drink. A couple of candles glowed.
A padre knelt. Two neophytes were at work patching a hole in the wall.
The caballero paced back and forth in the narrow aisle, listening to
the beating of the storm outside, wondering whether a fray would speak
to him and offer relief.

The neophytes went out, and in time the padre followed. The caballero
did not speak as he passed, for he felt that the other would not
answer. He wondered whether the entire world had turned against him. He
contrasted his present condition with the hospitality he had received
at Santa Barbara and San Fernando, and in the adobe house of Gonzales
at Reina de Los Angeles. He longed for the companionship of the aged
Indian at San Luis Rey de Francia, for his poor hut and coarse food and
hard bunk.

And then his pride returned to him in a surge. He would seek sanctuary
in no chapel where his presence was not welcomed by all!

Out into the rain he went again, across the plaza, down the slope
to where he had picketed his horse. Back and forth he ran to warm
his blood. The sky darkened, the night came. He saw the lights in
the buildings again, and the odours of cooking food almost drove him
frantic. In the guest house, someone was singing. He guessed that it
was Señorita Anita Fernandez.

He spent that night in the orchard under the big palm, shivering
because of the cold and his wet clothes, miserable because of his
hunger, and when the dawn came, and the storm had not abated, he went
back to the horse with an armful of dry grass he had found in the
corner by the orchard wall.

Bravado came to him now. He took the guitar from beneath his cloak,
and, standing out on the slope where all could see, he played and sang
at the top of his voice.

Still it rained, and the creek grew broader, flooding the highway and
threatening the plaza wall. The caballero sat on the muddy ground, his
cloak over his head, huddled forward, grim, awaiting the end of the
rain.

“The poor man!” observed Señora Vallejo, watching from a window of the
guest house.

“He has brought it upon himself,” Señor Lopez reminded her. “Had he
returned when I warned him he would have been in comfort somewhere
along the highway long since.”

“If the rain could but wash his soul as it does his body!” sighed
Anita, standing closer to the big fireplace.

“The man will die,” Señora Vallejo said. “His clothing is soaked, and
he cannot build a fire and cook food.”

“Perhaps it will teach him a lesson,” Lopez snarled. “We must watch; he
may try to break into the storehouse to-night.”

“Listen! He is singing again,” Anita called.

“Oh, the man has courage enough!” Lopez said. “They tell a thousand
stories of his daring. The men at one of the missions were going to
whip him down the highway once, and he sang them out of it. Moreover,
he got them to play at cards, and finally went down the highway with a
drove of mules loaded with goods he had won.”

“You are certain all the stories are true?” the girl asked.

“More stories are true than you may be told, _señorita_. It is best not
to ask too much,” Señora Vallejo put in; and she frowned a warning at
the storekeeper.

They sat down to the evening meal, to a table loaded with food as if
for a feast. The man down on the slope was still singing.

“Perhaps he will go away after the storm,” Anita suggested. “He will be
too miserable to remain.”

“And when the story gets up and down El Camino Real, he will be forced
to leave the country,” Lopez added. “He is the sort of man who cannot
stand ridicule.”

Darkness descended swiftly that night, and down beside the swollen
creek the caballero, now downhearted, tried to think of some expedient
that would make his lot better. When the lights were burning brightly
in the guest house, he took his guitar and slipped across the plaza, to
stand beneath Anita’s window again and play and sing. The howling of
the wind almost drowned his voice, and he doubted whether those inside
could hear. Once the giant Pedro walked within a dozen feet of him, but
did not speak, and the caballero knew that he was being watched.

He crept into the orchard again, and for a time slept on the wet ground
because of his exhaustion, and as he slept the rain pelted him and
water dripped upon him from the fronds. Awaking to face another dawn,
the third day of the downpour, his face and hands were tender from the
continual washing of the water, and his hunger had become a pain.

The rain ceased about midday, but the sun did not come from behind
the clouds. Behind a jumble of rocks half a mile up the valley, the
caballero removed some of his clothes and wrung the water from them
as well as he could before he put them on again. He scraped the clay
from his boots; and searched beneath the rocks until he found a small
quantity of dry grass and sticks, getting them ready for his fire when
the sun should shine.

But the drizzle continued, and the sun did not show its face. The
caballero stood beside the creek and watched the rushing stream,
one arm around the neck of his horse. Less than a hundred feet away
neophytes were toiling to strengthen the adobe wall where the water had
undermined it, a couple of frailes giving them orders; but none spoke
to the caballero or looked his way.

Again night came. He sat on a rock at the edge of the creek, thoroughly
miserable, hoping that the sun would shine on the morrow, that he’d be
able to kill a rabbit for food. He thought he heard someone splashing
through the mud, and looking around, saw a dark shape approach.

Something struck the ground at his feet, and he saw the dark shape
retreat again. The caballero took a few steps and picked up a package;
he tore away the wrapper--and found flint and steel!

The caballero chuckled now and hurried to the pile of dry grass and
twigs he had collected. Soon the welcome blaze sprang up. He threw on
more fuel, stretched his hands to the fire, spread his cloak to dry. He
was too busy now to speculate as to the identity of his benefactress;
for he had guessed that it was a woman who had befriended him, else a
gowned fray, and he doubted the latter.

The fire roared, and the caballero stood near it, first facing the
blaze and then letting it warm his back, while the steam poured from
his wet clothes. The fire was good, but he needed food also--he would
have to wait for morning for that, he supposed.

Another sound of someone slipping on the wet ground, and the caballero
whirled around and looked up the slope. But there was silence, and
he did not hear the sound again. Once more he faced the fire, and
presently the sound of footsteps came to him, and this time he did not
turn.

The steps stopped, retreated, and he felt sure that he heard a bit of
laughter carried to him on the rushing wind. He waited an instant,
then walked slowly up the slope toward his horse. He came upon another
package. Hurrying back to the fire, he opened it. There was a roast leg
of mutton, a bottle of wine, cold cakes of wheat-paste, a tiny package
of salt, a jar of honey!

With the roast leg of mutton in his hands he did not stop to wonder as
to the good samaritan who had left the package there. He ate until the
last of the roast had been devoured; drank deeply of the invigorating
wine; stored honey and cakes and salt away in his cloak, and then he
sat before the fire thinking the world considerably better than it
had been an hour before. Now and then he chuckled, and his eyes were
sparkling.

For, when he had gone to pick up the second package, he had carried a
brand from the fire to light his way, and he had seen footprints in the
soft clay.

They had not been made by Señora Vallejo, for he had noticed three
evenings before down by the creek that the feet of Señora Vallejo were
not of the daintiest. Neither had they been made by some Indian woman
from one of the huts, since those women always wore moccasins.

They had been made by two tiny shoes with fashionable heels, such as
might have been imported from Mexico for the daughter of a wealthy
rancho owner!



CHAPTER VI

VISITORS


The fire died down for lack of fuel, until only a small bed of coals
remained to glow like a great red eye in the black night. There was no
moon. The caballero, warm and dry, had spread his cloak on the ground
and was stretched upon it, half asleep, listening to the rushing of the
creek and the screeching of the wind that swept up the valley from the
sea.

He sensed the presence of human beings near him, and without changing
his position on the cloak he let his right hand slip slowly along his
side until it gripped the butt of his pistol. And there he remained,
trying to pierce the black night with his eyes, ears strained to catch
the slightest sound.

His horse snorted in sudden fear; the caballero gripped the pistol
tighter, half minded to spring to his feet, yet declining to do so for
fear it might be some prowling neophyte attempting to frighten him and
carry a tale back to the huts in the plaza of how the caballero had
been stricken with fear in the night.

“_Señor!_” The warning hiss seemed to come from a great distance,
borne on the raging wind. He knew it was an Indian who spoke; and the
inflection of the single word expressed that the speaker was merely
trying to attract his attention, not threatening, not warning of some
imminent peril.

The caballero rolled over slowly and sat up, yawning behind his hand,
like a man displeased at an interruption. Though every sense was alert,
there was nothing in his manner to indicate to a watcher that he had
been startled or that the unknown voice out of the night had carried
fright to him.

He looked across the bed of coals, and saw nothing. He glanced at
either side, but no leering face came from the blackness, no dark form
slipped toward him, knife in hand to attack, or finger on lips to
caution silence. The horse snorted again.

“_Señor!_” Once more the hiss, and it seemed nearer.

“Well?” the caballero demanded, half angrily and in a questioning tone.

“It is a friend who would aid you.”

A handful of dry grass and leaves remained near the fire; now the
caballero arose slowly, picked up the fuel and took a quick step toward
the glowing coals.

“Not that, _señor_!” came the sudden warning. “Guards about the mission
will see!”

The caballero hesitated, not knowing whether to treat the man in the
darkness as friend or foe. Then he laughed lightly and dropped the
grass and leaves.

“Approach, then, so I may see you!” he commanded.

He heard someone slipping through the mud. Gazing across the bed of
coals he saw an Indian face come from the darkness, just the bare
outline of a face half seen in the night--thick black hair bound back
from the forehead, two piercing eyes, an aggressive chin. The Indian
stooped so that the reflection from the dying fire illuminated his
features for an instant.

At the point of speaking, the caballero felt his tongue seem to grow
paralyzed. Beside the face of the Indian another had appeared--and
another--another, until six faces peered at him from the darkness and
six Indians squatted in the mud on the other side of the bed of coals.

“We have come, _señor_,” the spokesman said.

“That is plainly to be seen.”

“At first we were not sure, and then word came to-day by a runner
from an old man at San Luis Rey de Francia, who said he had given you
lodging for a night, and, also, we saw how you were treated by the
people of the mission and the presidio. So we came.”

“And now--?” the caballero asked.

“What is your wish, _señor_? In a cañon five miles away there is a
comfortable camp, and if you desire we’ll guide you to it.”

“I am of the opinion I’d much rather remain where am.”

“We do not understand your ways, _señor_, yet we trust you. If it is
your desire to remain here beneath the mission walls, undoubtedly you
have some good reason. But you must have a camp, _señor_--shelter and
food and drink--and those of the mission will give you none.”

“You speak truth there,” the caballero admitted.

“Thinking, perhaps, you may decide to remain near the mission, we
carried with us material for your camp. We can pitch it for you beside
the creek in a very short time, _señor_. When the dawn comes, those of
the mission will find Captain Fly-by-Night in a comfortable teepee,
with skins for his bed, an abundance of food and wine, cooking vessels,
a heap of fuel. Every night one of us will fetch fresh meat and other
food, and hear what you may have to say in the way of orders.”

“This kindness will be the death of me,” said the caballero.

“We cannot do too much for Captain Fly-by-Night. We may build your
camp?”

“I always accept what Heaven provides. On the level spot half a hundred
feet from the creek would be an acceptable place.”

The six Indians bowed before him and merged into the darkness.
Chuckling to himself, the caballero sank back on his cloak and
listened, but he did not release his grip on the butt of his
pistol. Sounds came to him through the night from a short distance
away--muttering voices, flapping skins, the squashing of wet moccasins
in the mud. Half an hour passed, and then he heard the voice of the
spokesman again:

“_Señor._”

“Well?”

“The camp is prepared; everything is ready. It is best that we slip
away before being heard or seen. At midnight each night some one of
us will visit you, _señor_, and bring provisions. And now--is there
anything you would command this night?”

“Nothing. You have done well, it seems.”

“You will be guarded, _señor_. There are friends of Captain
Fly-by-Night inside the mission walls, but they must move carefully.”

“I should think so.”

“Everything is in the teepee, even to food for your horse. The fire is
laid before it, and you have but to strike flint and steel. _Adios,
señor._”

“_Adios!_”

The Indian’s face disappeared again, the caballero heard the slipping
steps retreating, another fragment of language, and then silence except
for the rushing wind and the roaring creek.

For half an hour he waited, smiling, fumbling at his pistol, listening,
and then he got up and stepped away from the bed of coals to be
swallowed up in the darkness. He was taking no chances with the
unknown, however. Step by step, and silently, he made a wide circle and
approached the teepee. Standing beside it he listened intently, but
heard nothing.

Before the crude habitation was a heap of dry grass and wood, as the
Indian had said. He sent sparks flying among the fuel, fanned them to
a blaze, and waited back in the darkness a few minutes longer. Then he
hurried forward and threw back the skins from the door of the teepee.

The work had been well done. Boughs were on the ground, skins spread
upon them. In a corner was a jug of wine, another of water, a quarter
of mutton, a quantity of wheat-paste. Two rabbits, skinned and cleaned
and spread on forked sticks, were beside the mutton. A dirty, ragged
blanket, folded, was against the wall.

There was no fear of treachery in the heart of the caballero now. As
quickly as possible he got his cloak, sword and guitar, and carried
them into the teepee; he found grain and hay where the Indians had left
them--near the fire--and carried a generous amount to his horse. Then
he returned to the teepee, threw himself upon the blanket facing the
fire, and slept.

Slept--and awoke to find the bright sun beating down upon his face,
that the creek had fallen until it was scarcely more than its normal
size, that neophytes and frailes were at work again repairing the base
of the abode wall, and that now and then one of them looked with wonder
at the teepee that had been pitched during the night.

“Curiosity will do them good,” the caballero mused.

It was a royal meal he prepared that bright morning. Steaks of mutton,
one of the rabbits he broiled over a bed of coals, cakes of wheat-paste
were made, and, sitting out where all could see, the caballero ate his
fill and washed down the food with wine so rich and rare that he knew
no Indian had taken it from his own store. It was good mission wine
such as no Indian possessed unless he had purloined it in a raid.

He stretched a skin and poured half the water on it for the horse, for
that in the creek was not yet fit for drinking. He gave the animal
another measure of grain and wiped his coat smooth with a skin, and
polished the silver on saddle and bridle, singing as he worked so that
his voice carried to the plaza.

At an early hour he observed a neophyte ride away in the direction of
the presidio, to return within a short time with the _comandante_. In
the plaza the officer held a consultation with a fray, looking often at
the teepee down by the creek, and then the man in uniform stalked down
the slope, swaggering and twirling his moustache. The caballero arose
as the other approached.

“It appears that you have a habitation, Captain Fly-by-Night,” the
lieutenant said.

“As a temporary refuge, it will do.”

“The manner of your getting it is mysterious, to say the least. Teepees
do not sprout overnight from the mud.”

“Yet it came during the night, _señor_.”

“From whom?”

“That is a question concerning myself, officer.”

“Perhaps it concerns others at San Diego de Alcalá. The frailes at the
mission seem to know naught of it.”

“There are many things the frailes of the mission do not know,” the
caballero replied. “There are things, also, unknown to the soldiers of
the presidio.”

“You are over bold to say it, _señor_. Is your hand so strong that you
can throw secrecy and pretence aside?”

“When you speak of secrecy and pretence, officer, I do not know your
meaning. It is my own business how I acquired a habitation and food. I
am a man of resource, _señor_. And are you not afraid that you’ll be
ostracized if you are observed speaking to me?”

“It is a part of my business to investigate suspicious characters,” the
lieutenant said.

“Have a care, officer! The score I hold against you already is a heavy
one!”

“Your presence here, and your manifest determination to remain, are
annoying, _señor_.”

“Were you at your post at the presidio, it would not annoy you, allow
me to say.”

“Those of the mission----”

“I have been given to understand, _señor_,” the caballero interrupted,
“that I do not exist for those at the mission. As for yourself, if you
seek hospitality I have none to offer you. Suppose you give me the
pleasure of your absence.”

“_Señor!_”

“_Señor!_” the caballero mocked, sweeping sombrero from his head and
bowing low.

The _comandante_ snarled in sudden rage and his blade leaped half from
its scabbard. Taking a step backward, the caballero put hand to hilt
again, and waited. Thus they faced each other beside the creek, while
frailes and neophytes watched from the wall, expecting the two men to
clash. But the rage died from the officer’s face, and he snapped his
sword back in place again.

“You are a clever rogue, Captain Fly-by-Night,” he said. “Almost you
taunted me to combat. An officer of his excellency’s forces cannot
stoop to fight with such as you.”

“You fear such a thing, perhaps?”

“_Señor!_” the officer cried.

He looked for a moment at the smiling face of the caballero, ground his
teeth in his rage, whirled upon his heel, and strode away up the slope,
anger in the very swing of his body. Before the teepee the caballero
picked up guitar and began to play and sing.

Mud flew from beneath the hoofs of the _comandante’s_ horse as he
galloped back toward the presidio. Frailes and neophytes resumed their
work. Two hours passed--and then there appeared two soldiers, mounted,
who stopped at the plaza, spoke to the frailes, handed their horses
over to Indians, and strolled down toward the creek.

They did not approach near the teepee, nor did they seemingly give the
caballero more than a passing glance. Yet he knew that he was to be
under surveillance, that he would be watched by these men night and
day, others from the presidio relieving them from time to time. And he
expected guests at midnight!



CHAPTER VII

TWO TALKS, AND A TUNNEL


The siesta hour was over; the caballero had spent it in proper fashion
in his teepee; and now, standing out in the open, he was feeding tufts
of hay to his horse and caressing the animal’s neck and nose.

Half a hundred yards away the two soldiers from the presidio regarded
him with animosity, holding him to blame for their assignment at the
mission, where none had love for them, and their absence from the
barracks-room and its wine and cards, tales and laughter.

Neophytes and frailes had finished their work of repairing the adobe
wall; men were grouped about the plaza; children played about the huts
of tule and straw; the door of the storehouse was open and Señor Lopez
stood in it talking to Pedro, the giant neophyte apparently in the
service of the guest house.

Though it appeared so, yet it was not bravado that drove the caballero
to cross the plaza then. It was necessity; for he had given his horse
the water that remained in the jug, and needed more, and remembered
that there was a well in the orchard.

Swinging the jug by one hand, he started briskly up the slope toward
the wall, realising that one of the soldiers was following him at a
distance, and that the other remained behind to watch the teepee.

An Indian lounging beside the chapel called to another, and the
word was passed along. Señor Lopez straightened up and observed the
caballero’s advance; Pedro followed him inside, and the door was
closed. Indian women called their children into the huts; the men
remained standing in groups, but closer together, and as they talked
they watched the caballero from beneath shaggy brows. Frailes went
about their business as if he did not exist.

“It is a pleasant thing,” he mused, “to be treated in this manner by
human beings.”

He did not betray what he felt, however. Singing under his breath as
he walked around the end of the wall, he started diagonally across the
plaza, looking neither to right nor left. Neophytes turned their backs
upon him, and as he passed within half a dozen feet of a fray, and
called a greeting in a cheery tone, the Franciscan did not answer, did
not even lift his head.

He came to the wall around the orchard and swung upon it--and there
stopped, poised, facing the unexpected. Señorita Anita Fernandez,
Señora Vallejo and a neophyte were walking toward the well.

It was not a time for hesitation, however. He sprang down on the inside
and started forward, whistling, knowing they were aware of his approach
and that the girl was whispering warnings to her _duenna_. The neophyte
had filled a water jug and would have turned back, but the girl
instructed him to wait, and remained standing near the well, looking
down the valley toward the bay. Her face was flaming, her black eyes
snapped.

“Pardon, _señorita_,” the caballero said. “Perhaps it may look badly
to you, but I give you my word of honour I did not see you enter the
orchard and purposely follow you here, even though your _duenna_ is
present. I am of a family that observes the conventions, _señorita_, no
matter what may be said of me.”

“Señora Vallejo, when will you cease mumbling to yourself?” the girl
demanded.

“I? Mumbling? ’Tis but a frog croaking in the well.”

“That comes from sleeping on the wet ground,” the caballero observed.
“When last we met my voice resembled the sighing of the gentle wind
through the olive trees, if memory serves me right.”

Señora Vallejo had turned her back, but the caballero could see that
her shoulders were shaking, and not with anger. Señorita Anita was
deeply interested in the distant flashing of sun on the water.

“Even such rain as we have had recently could not drown my ardour,” the
caballero continued. “Yet it was growing almost unbearable--the storm
and the cold and misery. How can I ever find thanks enough to give the
angel who fetched me flint and steel under cover of the darkness, when
I had about given up hope?”

The girl whirled suddenly, suspiciously, looking not at the caballero,
but at her _duenna_; and Señora Vallejo’s face resembled the sunset.

“Nor is that all,” went on the caballero. “Flint and steel might have
given me fire, but naught but an angel could have furnished me, at that
moment, with cold meat and wine and other supplies.”

Now Señora Vallejo whirled in her turn, and Señorita Anita turned
suddenly to look down the valley again, her face flaming red. A choking
sound came from her throat.

“Some fray of San Diego de Alcalá must have been a holy man, since
angels make dwelling here,” the man said. “For two visited me last
night within the space of half an hour and left material evidences of
their visits behind. It is true I had other visitors later, who left
me even a teepee, but scarcely would I call them angels, knowing their
breed as I do.”

Sombrero in hand, he waited, hoping the girl would speak to him, if
even in rebuke. There was silence for a moment, during which the two
women did not look at each other, and the neophyte wondered whether he
should call for aid.

“Señora Vallejo,” said the girl, presently, “do you not think we should
be returning to the guest house? The evening air is cold, and I would
not contract a cough, since I must be at my best when Rojerio Rocha
comes.”

“It would be the proper thing to do; the orchard is wet.”

“And I always did dislike a croaking frog,” Anita added. “Tell that
Indian to throw out the water in his jar. Nobody except a senseless
being would draw water from the well now, since the storm has filled
it with the surface flood.”

The caballero felt his face growing red as he glanced down at the jug
he held in his hand. The girl had scored again. He looked up quickly,
hearing them start to move away, and for an instant their eyes met
squarely.

“Bullet nor arrow can harm me now!” he exclaimed. “My heart already is
pierced!” And, with that last shot, he turned toward the curb of the
well, put his jug down upon it, and stood with his back turned toward
them, laughing to himself.

He heard the girl gasp in exasperation, and exchange whispered
sentences with her _duenna_. There was a step on the ground at his
back, but not for the world would he turn.

“_Señor_,” a soft voice said.

He turned now, and swept his sombrero from his head again, and bowed
low before her. Her face was still flaming, but she looked him bravely
in the eyes.

“_Señorita?_”

“I feel that I must speak to you this once, _señor_. For the boasts you
made concerning me, I forgive you freely, believing that they would
not have been made unless you were in your cups. But surely you must
realise that nothing can be accomplished by remaining at San Diego de
Alcalá. The people dislike you, _señor_, and your presence is very
annoying because of that. Will you not go back up El Camino Real?”

“That you forgive anything I may have said pleases me, _señorita_,” the
caballero replied. “It shows you have a gentle heart, as was shown
last night when you carried me food. I am desolated to think you have
such an ill opinion of me. As for leaving San Diego de Alcalá--I cannot
think of that just now, _señorita_.”

“Not even if I ask it as a kindness, _señor_?”

“Not even though you ask it, _señorita_--and I would do it for you
sooner than for anyone else I know.”

“It is not pretty compliments I wish, _señor_. Will you not forget your
foolish boast, and go?”

“If ever I made a boast, _señorita_, it was not a foolish one.”

“I urge you again, _señor_, to go before Rojerio Rocha comes. He is
expected to become my husband, and when he hears of your boast he may
take it upon himself to do something unpleasant. Will you not do as I
request, since I have disobeyed my _duenna’s_ orders and lowered myself
to speak with you?”

“_Lowered_ yourself, _señorita_?” Surprise, astonishment, a bit of pain
was in the voice, and the caballero’s face went white for an instant
as his fingers gripped the rim of his sombrero until it was torn. But
quickly he recovered his composure, and bowed before her again. “I
beg your pardon, _señorita_. But you mistake. It would be impossible
for you to lower yourself, since angels are above punishment and
accusation; it is myself--or any other man--who is elevated when you
condescend to take notice of his existence.”

“I--I should not have spoken as I did,” she stammered.

“You should speak exactly as you desire, _señorita_--always. It is your
privilege. As for me--it is my privilege to remain at San Diego de
Alcalá, not in opposition to your wishes, but because I--I have reason
to remain. And you yourself have made it impossible for me to leave
now.”

“I?”

“There was some question, I believe, of my punishment at the hands of
this Rojerio Rocha if I remained. That in itself is a very good reason
why I should not depart, _señorita_. Have you ever heard it said that I
am a coward?”

“I am sure you are not,” she replied, searching his face. “It takes a
brave man to depart in the face of a charge of cowardice, _señor_. Will
you not show your courage?”

“The point is well taken,” he observed. “But I have reason for
remaining, though mission and presidio and neophytes and gentiles turn
against me--a twofold reason, _señorita_. One part of it concerns that
of which, happily, you know nothing; and the other----”

“Well, _señor_?”

“I have seen you, _señorita_; I have heard your voice and looked into
your eyes. And I intend to win you for my wife, else have no wife at
all!”

“_Señor!_ You dare?”

“To speak the truth----?”

“I might have known insults would be my pay for speaking to you!”

“Is it an insult to have a gentleman say that he loves you above all
women he ever has seen, that he loved you when first he saw you, that
he hopes one day to call you wife?”

“It is an insult coming from such as you, _señor_!”

“Ah! I beg your pardon! I had forgotten for the time being my name and
station.”

“Captain Fly-by-Night would do well to always remember those things,
especially in the presence of reputable persons. I forgave you the
boast concerning myself, _señor_; but I cannot forgive you this latest
insult to my face. Go or remain as you will, your affairs are no
concern of mine longer, _señor_. Though you starve on the doorstep of
the chapel, I’ll not recognise your presence!”

Señora Vallejo had been calling in a soft voice for the past five
minutes. Now the girl turned from the caballero and hurried after her
_duenna_. Leaning against the curb of the well, he watched her until
she had disappeared through a hole in the wall and across the plaza.

He laughed softly to himself then, and picked up the water jug,
swinging it foolishly at his side, chagrined to think he had not
remembered that the water in the well would be ruined for the time
being, wondering if Señorita Anita really thought the jug a mere
subterfuge of his to follow her and seek conversation.

Turning, he looked down into the well. Surface water was seeping
through the rocks of the curb, and a few feet below the level of the
ground a torrent poured into the hole to splash far below.

“Where is that coming from?” the caballero wondered.

He walked to the other side of the curb and bent over to look better.
Ten feet from the top was the mouth of a small cavern in the side of
the well, and from this the water was pouring in a stream half a foot
deep and a _vara_ wide.

“Persons do not turn a drain into a well,” he observed, watching the
downpour. “There is something here that needs to be investigated.”

He glanced around. No other person was in the small orchard; none was
peering at him over the wall. It was almost dusk. Perhaps the soldier
who had followed him from the teepee was watching through a crack in
the adobe, but he could not be sure.

He picked up the jug and sauntered toward the wall, stopping where a
breach had been made, instead of springing over in the usual place. The
soldier had turned back, and was standing at one corner of the plaza
talking to a fray, and waiting.

The caballero ran back to the wall again, looked around quickly, and
let himself over the curb. Jutting rocks gave holds for his feet and
hands. He lowered himself rapidly, until he was at the mouth of the
small cavern.

The volume of water pouring out was not so great now. The cavern
was not a small storage-place for tallow, as he had half suspected,
but a tunnel. Now the spirit of exploration was on him, and he drew
himself inside. Foot by foot he made his way through the narrow gorge,
splashing in water and mud to his knees, the water dripping upon him
from the dirt roof.

Soon he had gone so far that light from the well did not penetrate, and
now he journeyed slowly, putting a foot out and feeling around before
attempting a step, fearing to be plunged into a pit or another well.
He had covered a distance of fifty yards when he came to a turning, and
there he stopped for a moment, hesitating whether to go on.

Then he heard voices, faintly at first, the voices of women, and
they seemed to come from above. He heard Señora Vallejo’s deep tones
raised in rebuke, the softer syllables of Señorita Anita Fernandez in
justification of her act. He put out his hand to touch the wall, and
found it dry and warm. The cracking of burning wood could be heard. The
tunnel ended against a wall of the guest house.

“Some wise old padre did this in the earlier days,” the caballero
observed. “I doubt whether half a dozen men in the mission know of its
existence now.”

But there was another tunnel that branched away from this, and in a
diagonal direction. The caballero followed it, determined to gather
what knowledge he could. Less than a hundred feet, and he came up
against another wall. There were no sounds here, but there was a thin
streak of light entering at the end.

He crept near the streak of light and applied his eyes to the crack.
The day was dying, and he could see but dimly, but enough to show that
he was looking into the mortuary chapel of the mission. Here, then, was
another way of escape in case of danger, provided by the frailes of
Serra’s time.

His exploration was at an end now, and he faced the long, wet return
journey through the tunnel to the well. He shivered at the thought
of it, and decided it should not be made. Again he looked through
the crack; there was no one in the chapel, and, moreover, the tunnel
entrance was in a dark corner. He put his fingers in the crack and
tried to pull. A section of the wall gave a little. He braced himself
against the side of the tunnel, exerted his strength, and a square of
adobe swung inward.

For a moment he waited, listening, then slipped into the chapel and
swung the section of wall back into place, even scattering dust along
the crack where his hands had gripped. Walking silently, he made
his way to the main part of the church, meeting no one, arousing no
suspicion. Presently he opened the door and stepped out into the
plaza. He was seen only by neophytes, and his presence there did not
arouse much curiosity among them, for even Captain Fly-by-Night, they
supposed, attended to his devotions and confessed his many sins.

At the corner of the plaza he came face to face with an agitated
soldier, who had looked back into the orchard, missed the caballero,
and searched frantically and without result. The caballero grinned in
the man’s red face, and walked slowly down the slope.

“Now from where, in the name of evil, did that man come?” the soldier
gasped. But he got no answer then, though he gathered a solution at a
later day.

The caballero was building up his fire and preparing the evening meal
when the soldier joined his companion beside the creek. Two neophytes
hurried down the slope and made camp for the men from the presidio,
building a fire and stretching a shelter of skins, and giving them food
and wine. Darkness came swiftly, and to those at the mission the two
fires beside the creek looked like the eyes of a giant beast about to
spring on the settlement.

The caballero did not attempt a serenade this night. He sat before his
fire, wondering what would occur at midnight, when the Indians were to
come. The presence of the soldiers complicated matters. He knew that
at least one of them was watching him, and that, if he started to move
away, one would follow.

The hours passed, slowly it seemed to the caballero. One by one the
lights in the mission buildings disappeared. The heavy fog obscured the
light of the moon and stars. A cold wind crept up the valley, and the
caballero wrapped his cloak around his shoulders and sat nearer the
fire.



CHAPTER VIII

A VICTOR RUNS AWAY


An hour after sunrise an Indian rode a mule furiously up the valley
from the presidio. The beast was covered with lather and dust, and
the rider appeared half exhausted. His screeching awoke the sleeping
caballero, who went out of the teepee and looked toward the plaza to
note the cause of the uproar.

Frailes and neophytes crowded around the mule’s rider and questioned
eagerly. Señor Lopez came from the storehouse to hear the news, and the
caballero could see that his face was illuminated with a smile as he
hurried across to the guest house, where he knocked on the door.

The door opened and Señora Vallejo appeared, Señorita Anita Fernandez
beside her. Words were passed. Señora Vallejo turned and clasped the
girl in her arms; the _señorita_ hid her face against the _duenna’s_
shoulder; Señor Lopez laughed loudly, and a passing fray raised arms in
blessing.

Indian women and children began running about, busy at nothing in
particular. Lopez began giving wine to any who asked it. Straw was
thrown on the mud near buildings where the sun had not penetrated
enough to turn the wet clay to dust. One by one, men walked to the end
of the wall and gazed down El Camino Real toward the bay.

“One would think San Diego de Alcalá expected a visit from His
Excellency the Governor!” the caballero gasped. “Nothing like this
transpired when I came off the highway and graced the mission with my
presence.”

And then, an hour before noon, a dust cloud approached from the north.
It did not stop at the presidio, this dust cloud, but continued up the
valley, and in time it was dispelled enough for the caballero to see
that the riders were two in number, and that they were followed by a
pack mule compelled to cover the ground at a gallop.

Neophytes covered the top of the adobe wall to watch; frailes ran here
and there about the plaza calling orders that were given no attention;
and Señor Lopez, standing in the doorway of the storehouse beside
the giant Pedro, jested loudly as he quaffed wine, but in words the
caballero could not hear. The two soldiers who had been the caballero’s
guards partook of the excitement, and left the shore of the creek to
climb the slope and join in the enthusiasm.

The riders came nearer; one was a man well dressed, with his
bright-coloured zarape flowing behind him; the other was an Indian who
rode a mule. The red dust of the highway covered them, but they sat
their saddles like men newly mounted, though it was evident they had
travelled the forty miles from San Luis Rey de Francia that morning.

And now the neophytes were sending their cries down the valley:

“Rojerio Rocha! A welcome to Rojerio Rocha! Welcome to the _señorita’s_
husband-to-be!”

Suddenly the caballero began to give more interest in the proceeding.

“Rojerio Rocha, eh?” he mused. “The husband-to-be of Señorita Anita?
Upon my soul, this is to be interesting. I presume I’ll have an
interview with the gentleman before the end of the day. Well, I am
prepared for it. Have at you, Señor Rojerio Rocha!”

He laughed aloud like a man enjoying an excellent joke, and standing
beside the teepee watched the arrival with wide and glistening eyes.

The riders stopped at the end of the adobe wall in a cloud of dust, the
Indian a short distance in the rear to handle the pack mule. His master
swept sombrero from head, bowed, and dismounted. Neophytes held back,
but the frailes crowded forward and around him, and Señor Lopez, making
his way through the crowd like a ship through tossing waves, stalked
toward the new-comer with arms extended and moustaches lifted by a
broad smile.

“A welcome, Rojerio Rocha!” he called. “Welcome to San Diego de Alcalá!
No man is more welcome than you!”

“I thank you,” the new arrival said. He stood beside his horse, one arm
over the animal’s neck. Señor Lopez noted that he had broad shoulders
and a high brow, that he was handsome, that his moustache was curled
in the approved fashion and his clothing bore the stamp of mode. He
appeared such a man as those at San Diego de Alcalá had hoped he would
be, for it was fitting that the co-heir of old Señor Fernandez should
have appearance and dignity.

“How like you his looks, _señorita_?” Señora Vallejo asked of the girl,
as they stood in the doorway of the guest house, and the crowd parted
for an instant so they could see.

“Splendidly! If his disposition is as good----”

“Tut! Is he not a Rocha, a distant relative of the Fernandez family?
You can see it in the way he stands beside his horse. Blood always will
tell, dear child.”

The rider’s piercing eyes swept the company, passed over the heads of
those nearest, and rested for a moment on the girl in the doorway.
Señor Lopez hurled a neophyte out of his way and took a step forward,
while all fell silent and waited for the first words to fall from the
lips of the old _señor’s_ heir.

“It gives me great pleasure, Rojerio Rocha,” Lopez said, “to welcome
you to San Diego de Alcalá. I am Señor Lopez, and was Señor Fernandez’s
manager at the rancho for many years before he passed away. It was I
who wrote you the letter the _señor_ signed telling that he wished you
to inherit his property, together with his fair daughter, Anita, and
expressing the hope that you two would find it in your hearts to wed.
So I welcome you to San Diego de Alcalá on behalf of every man and
woman here, and may you be pleased with your inheritance.”

It was a glorious smile that illuminated the face of the man addressed.
For a moment he looked them over again, then extended his hand, and
Lopez grasped it warmly.

“Your welcome overcomes me,” he said. “I had scarce expected it.”

“You might have known, Rojerio Rocha, that we would be glad to welcome
you,” Lopez replied.

“I was not certain, not knowing the goodness of your heart. Now, as to
my inheritance----?”

“The rancho of many broad acres lies five miles to the west, _señor_.
Neophytes and gentiles are employed there, and we have, indeed, a happy
family. Since the old _señor_ died his daughter and _duenna_ and myself
have been residing in the guest house here at the mission awaiting your
coming, but I have gone out every few days to observe how things are
being cared for on the rancho. You will find storehouses full, _señor_,
and the flocks and herds doing well, and besides, you inherit the good
will of every man, woman and child in and around San Diego de Alcalá.
And now--the _señorita_----”

“To be sure--the _señorita_!”

He continued smiling as Lopez took him by the arm and led him through
the throng to the door of the guest house. His eyes met those of
Anita as Lopez introduced them, and the girl’s face flushed. It was
disconcerting for her thus to meet this man for the first time, knowing
he was to be her husband.

She responded to his formal bow, and then would have taken Señora
Vallejo by the arm and led the way into the guest house, but found it
impossible, for the new-comer stepped forward quickly and took her
hand and bent and kissed it.

“In all the length of El Camino Real, _señorita_,” he said, “I am sure
there is not as much grace and beauty as I find here and now in this
one little spot. The sight of you is worth a journey of hundreds of
miles.”

And then, before she guessed what he intended, he had bent forward
swiftly and pressed a kiss upon her cheek. The red flamed in her face
and throat, and Señora Vallejo gasped in dismay and Señor Lopez looked
surprised, but the men and women of the mission cheered.

Up the steps and into the guest house they made their way, while the
caballero, down by the creek, turned to enter the teepee. The smile was
gone from the caballero’s face now; his eyes were narrowed as if he
were thinking deeply. And so he took stock of his rival, who had gained
the first kiss, although it was no better than a stolen one.

In the guest house there was a welcoming feast, because the old
_señor’s_ heir was just off the highway and fatigued, with the
new-comer sitting at the head of the table presiding with as much
dignity as old Señor Fernandez at his rancho ever had.

Señorita Anita was at his right hand, Señora Vallejo at his left; four
frailes sat at table, and Señor Lopez contented himself with a place
at the foot of it, looking upon the others with a solemn face, like a
man bowed under the heavy responsibilities of a big business. He was
wondering whether the old _señor’s_ heir would retain him as manager.

Señora Vallejo yearned for news of San Francisco de Asis, where once
she had been a toast, and was accommodated with a rambling story of
the doings of persons of quality there. Señor Lopez spoke of the old
branches of the Fernandez and Rocha families, and thought nothing of
it when the subject was changed adroitly, for he knew that the Rocha
branch had fallen upon evil days the past two generations, and retained
little of their once great fortune, though they retained their stiff
pride.

Anita, now smiling, and laughing at times, watched the guest keenly,
trying to estimate him, and found herself puzzled. Old wine was
opened by one of the frailes, and she saw the man at the head of the
table drink long and deeply. Little by little his dignity and poise
slipped from him. His laugh became louder and not so merry, for there
was sarcasm in the sound of it. His jests too, were not strictly in
accordance with good taste.

Señora Vallejo bit her lips and frowned; the face of Lopez remained
inscrutable--for who was he to question the conduct of the old
_señor’s_ heir? But little Anita Fernandez, excusing herself prettily,
arose and left the table, to go to a window and stand there looking out
across the plaza, with dread in her heart, a feeling she neither could
understand nor explain.

For some time she stood there with her back to the table, biting her
red lips, watching the neophytes going about their work, and then she
heard the others get up, and turned to see the old _señor’s_ heir
stagger toward her.

“Most beautiful _señorita_, I am going out with this Señor Lopez
to meet the men of the mission,” he said. “’Twill be lonesome,
nevertheless, until I am again with you. This evening, _señorita_, we
shall take a walk in the orchard, with your _duenna_ dodging about our
heels, and at such a time a man may talk of things other than business.”

He lurched forward as if to kiss her again, but she avoided him and
stepped back to bow.

“_Señor_,” she said, “I dislike to mar your welcome, yet there is a
thing that should receive attention at once.”

“And that----?” he questioned.

“Has not Señor Lopez told you of Captain Fly-by-Night and his boast?
The man is here, has been here for several days, though he is treated
as a nothing.”

“Captain Fly-by-Night? Here?”

“He has received a teepee and supplies from gentiles, and is camped
down by the creek. His presence is an insult to me, _señor_, but we
had decided to do nothing about the matter until your arrival. In the
orchard last evening he was even bold enough to speak to me, and his
words were words of--love. Shall this be allowed to pass?”

“He is camped down by the creek, eh?”

“He is, _señor_,” Lopez put in.

“Captain Fly-by-Night, you said?”

“It is the name he is called.”

“What would you have me do?”

Anita’s face flamed again.

“If it is necessary to tell you that, _señor_, then I am disappointed
in you,” she said. “Rojerio Rocha should know how to protect the woman
he is expected to make his wife.”

“I shall interview the _señor_ immediately. The boast he made is known
to me.”

“Allow me to accompany you, _señor_,” Lopez said.

“Thank you, but this is my private business. I’ll take my Indian
servant, and go at once!”

He spoke as a caballero should speak, and the girl’s eyes grew
brighter; and while the look in his face was not one of fear, yet it
was scarcely one of determination, and that puzzled her a bit.

He seemed to throw off the effects of the heavy wine with a shrug of
his shoulders as he walked to the door. Señor Lopez followed him out
and called for the neophyte, and went with them to the end of the adobe
wall. There they spoke for a moment, and then the guest hurried down
the slope toward the teepee, the Indian at his heels. His hand was on
the hilt of his sword, his head held high, his shoulders thrown back.
Anita and Señora Vallejo watched from the window.

The soldiers had returned to the post beside the creek, and the
caballero watching them from the door of his teepee, saw them get up
and glance toward the plaza. His own attention thus being attracted in
that direction, he observed the advance of the latest new-comer to the
mission.

He remained sitting on the skin before the doorway polishing the silver
on his saddle, and did not look up as the other approached. Steps
stopped beside him, there was a chuckle, then a voice:

“By all the good saints! It is Claudio!”

“Even so, _señor_,” replied the caballero, raising his head now, and
getting slowly upon his feet, “and you owe me two pieces of gold. That
was the wager, I believe, that you would be at San Diego de Alcalá
before me.”

“So it was, caballero, and here are the coins. Ill luck attended me,
while good fortune attended you.”

“Indeed?”

“This neophyte who trots at my heels--the same who served us at the
Santa Barbara presidio--had a brother who possessed a horse, and I
purchased it, also a mule, and got the neophyte for guide. I was not
more than four hours behind you, _señor_, in starting.”

“But--in arriving----?”

“Things came to pass, _señor_. At San Fernando I made the acquaintance
of a fray who wined and dined me so well that I slept overlong,
afterward telling me, while I cursed, that he had done it because he
feared I would kill my horse with riding. Arriving at the pueblo of
Reina de Los Angeles, I made my way quickly to the inn----”

“Expecting to find me with my throat slit?” asked the caballero.

“Um! By rare good fortune, for you, it appears you did not visit the
inn. I was somewhat surprised to hear it. But I felt that my chagrin
was appeased when I met a certain man named Gonzales, a jovial fellow
who insisted in playing host to me, purchasing wine, and playing cards.”

“And losing?”

“I believe I was the more fortunate in the game. Afterward I felt sure
this same Gonzales had been losing his wealth purposely, to delay me on
my journey.”

“Who can tell?” said the caballero.

“I was well received at San Juan Capistrano--then came the storm. By
the good saints, how it did rain!”

“I can swear as to that, _señor_, having been out in all of it.”

“I managed to reach San Luis Rey de Francia in time, and there the
storm held me up again. These things, _señor_, delayed me so that I
could not win my wager, but even these things would not have caused me
to lose had you spent the night in the inn at Reina de Los Angeles.”

“I can well imagine that.”

“And now they tell me here at the mission that you are Captain
Fly-by-Night, somewhat of a notorious personage.”

“So they call me, _señor_.”

“You perhaps heard them hail me as Rojerio Rocha? I have inherited a
great rancho, it seems, and am to wed a fair _señorita_.”

“Would it not be better, _señor_, to leave the lady out of our
conversation?” the caballero asked.

“Perhaps; there are weightier things to be discussed. It seems, dear
Claudio, that your presence here displeases those of the mission. They
tell me you made certain ill-timed boasts concerning a young lady and
her fortune, and the lady mentions you went as far as to speak to her
of love.”

“Enough, _señor_! We are not discussing a lady here.”

“Let us talk, then, of yourself, Captain Fly-by-Night. Do you take me
for an imbecile? Do you not fear, playing both hands as you do? Do you
not dread a day of reckoning? Can it be possible you do not observe
that you are caught in a trap? But enough of that! It is your own
affair.”

“Exactly, _señor_.”

“Even now, I presume, they are watching from the mission buildings to
see how I face you. It is expected that I’ll run you away, _señor_, or
run you through.”

“Either will be difficult, I fear.”

“Yet I have my position to maintain, _señor_, and must attempt one or
the other. It would suit me better to have you out of the way. If I can
accomplish that myself, I may gain in the estimation of those at the
mission. If I fail, there are friends of mine----”

“Why waste language, _señor_?” the caballero wanted to know.

“Will you pack up and leave, then? Will you go back up El Camino Real
and attend to your own affairs?”

“I must decline, _señor_. Your own removal from this vale of tears
would please me, understand.”

As he spoke, the caballero threw aside his zarape; his opponent did
likewise. Face to face they stood, blades out, sleeves turned back,
both grim, determined. The neophyte crouched half a score of feet away,
watching every move the men before him made. Men crowded the plaza
wall, others came running from the orchard, frailes knelt in prayer,
but none approached down the slope, for here was a matter to be settled
between two gentlemen without interruption from another source.

In the window of the guest house, Señorita Anita Fernandez turned
quickly and hid her face on the ample bosom of Señorita Vallejo, and
put fingers in her ears.

The two men engaged, neither a novice at the art of battling with a
blade, each firm of wrist and quick of foot and eye. Now the caballero
advanced, now he retreated. The steel hissed and sang and rang aloud.
The minutes passed. Perspiration streamed from the faces of the
combatants; their breaths were expelled in quick explosions.

“’Tis a pretty battle!” cried Señor Lopez from the top of the wall.
“Have at him, Rojerio Rocha, for your own honour and your lady’s fair
name! Flinch, dog of a Fly-by-Night! Ah----”

The old _señor’s_ heir began a furious attack, the caballero fell back
step by step. And then the recovery came! What he had done before was
but clumsy fencing to what the caballero did now. He had felt out his
man, he knew every trick at his command, he was ready now to put an end
to it. His teeth were sunk into his lips, and his eyes flashed as he
drove his opponent backward.

The neophyte gave a cry of fear and crept along the ground, fearing for
his master’s life. Something flashed in his hand. The caballero, from
the corner of his eye, observed it in time. Once his blade went aside,
to tear through the neophyte’s shoulder, and returned to the engagement
in time to ward off a thrust from the other man.

“Treachery, eh?” the caballero cried, above the ring of the blades.
“Your dog of a neophyte fights for you, eh? That is the sort of man you
are?”

“He did it by no order of mine,” the other gasped.

“I pollute my sword if I touch you with it! But I find it necessary,
_señor_! Run me away or run me through, eh? You? Fight, hound! Stand
your ground! Your wrist weakens, eh? Bah! ’Tis not worth a gentleman’s
time to meet you foot to foot!”

Those on the wall were standing now, and some of them had sprung to
the ground. Lopez was growling beneath his breath. The caballero drove
his antagonist up the slope for a space of ten yards, laughing at him,
taunting him, rebuking him, for the neophyte’s treachery.

“Do you cry for me to cease?” he demanded.

“Never, by the saints----”

“Then----!” His blade bit deep into the other’s shoulder. The old
_señor’s_ heir staggered, clapped a hand to his sword-arm, whirled
and crashed to the ground. And the caballero, stepping back, ran his
blade thrice into the turf to clean it, wiped it on his trousers, and
returned it to its scabbard. He spurned the treacherous neophyte with
his foot and hurried back toward his teepee.

He had anticipated what would follow, and he had scant time. From the
plaza wall had come a chorus of shrieks and howls. He heard the voice
of Señor Lopez raised in raging anger. Neophytes started down the
slope, some of them running, armed with knives, clubs and stones, to
avenge the downfall of Rojerio Rocha. The frailes called after them in
vain. Half a hundred strong, urged on by Lopez and led by the giant
Pedro, they rushed toward the teepee beside the creek.

The caballero had no idea of dying there, beaten by stones in the hands
of Indians. He yet had work to do, he told himself, and when death
did come, he wanted it more honourable than this--at least a bit more
fashionable.

He picked up saddle and bridle and ran to his horse, and, putting on
the bridle first, whirled to draw a pistol from his belt. The charge
hesitated, stopped.

“Back hounds!” he cried. “At least one of you will fall if you come on!
Who’ll be that unfortunate, eh? Back!”

He threw the saddle over the horse’s back and worked furiously to cinch
it. The voice of Lopez roared out again, and once more the neophytes
moved forward. Those behind crowded; their speed increased. Stones flew
through the air.

The crash of the pistol came, and an Indian fell to screech in fear and
pain. The caballero leaped to his saddle. His spurs raked his horse’s
flanks. Straight at them he dashed, blade out and ready, and as they
scattered to right and left he rode through them, slashing, and dashed
away up the valley toward the distant cañon, turning in the saddle just
before he disappeared behind a jumble of rocks to remove his sombrero
and wave it in derision.

“Now I am surely cut off from all reputable persons,” he said, aloud;
and laughed until the cañon walls sent the echoes of his merriment
ringing down the gorge.



CHAPTER IX

THE ALARM


Scattering curses along El Camino Real at every jump of his horse,
and caring not whether he killed the animal he rode, Sergeant Carlos
Cassara rode like a madman.

At San Fernando he gave a bit of information to a fray; at Reina de Los
Angeles he had speech with a corporal in command of the squad at the
guardhouse; he sent a message to San Gabriel; and he sent a fresh steed
flying over the miles that stretched to San Juan Capistrano as if the
life of a nation depended upon his ride.

Miles behind him rode Ensign Sanchez and a squad not expected to
maintain the fierce pace endured by the sergeant, and in their wake
they left suspicion and fear.

At San Juan Capistrano, Cassara exchanged horses while he spoke in
quick, low syllables to the padre. And then he was away toward the
south again, eating up the miles, taking chances in the darkness on the
rough highway through the hills, glad when the dawn came so that he
could make better speed.

San Luis Rey de Francia loomed ahead of him in the early morning hours;
the bells at the mission were ringing; neophytes and frailes were
pouring into the church. Indian children flew from before his horse as
the sergeant dashed up to the door of the padres’ quarters, and called
aloud for some man to come.

Again he changed horses, once more he whispered a few crisp sentences
that made the faces of the frailes grow white, and then he was away
to the south again in a cloud of dust--and behind at San Luis Rey de
Francia he left an old Indian before his hut on the roadside, who
wrinkled his eyes in concentrated thought until he scarcely could see,
and then called a young man and gave a message to be carried back into
the hills.

Exhausted, hungry, thirsty, covered with dust and perspiration, his
clothing sticking to him, the sergeant thought only of reaching his
destination. At the top of every hill he looked ahead, always hoping to
see San Diego de Alcalá in the distance. And when he did see it he gave
his horse the spurs and urged the beast to its greatest speed, and bent
low over the animal’s neck like a racing Indian.

He flew up the highway like the wind, knowing that his approach would
be noticed by the sentry at the gate of the presidio, and hoping that
the _comandante_ would be at his post and not visiting at a rancho or
talking with a padre at the mission six miles away.

At the bottom of the knoll his horse fell, and Cassara went over the
animal’s head to the ground, but was upon his feet almost as soon as
he struck, and running toward the gate. The sentry cried a challenge,
but Cassara did not answer. Could not the fool see his uniform, he
wondered? And then he would have fallen himself had not the man at the
gate thrown out an arm and caught him.

“Your lieutenant!” he gasped.

A corporal came running at the sentry’s cry; he aided the soldier to
half-carry, half-drag Cassara toward the barracks-room, in the door of
which the _comandante_ was standing, attracted by the sudden uproar.
Sergeant Cassara had no time now for the niceties of discipline; his
salute was merely the suggestion of one, and he gripped the lieutenant
by the arm to keep from falling as the corporal let go of him.

“Private information--from the north!” he managed to gasp.

Cassara was known the length of El Camino Real as a soldier of strength
and hardihood, and to see him in this state told the _comandante_ that
unusual things were happening. He grasped his inferior around the waist
and helped him to get to a private room, where the sergeant sank upon a
stool and threw his arms on the table before him to brace himself.

The lieutenant offered a cup of wine and Cassara tossed it off,
trying to gather breath enough to speak. With a wave of his hand the
lieutenant ordered the other soldiers from the room, then closed the
door.

“Now, what is it that brings the famous Sergeant Cassara to our post
like a dying man?” he demanded.

“An uprising--greater than any we have yet known! It has just been
discovered, barely in time.”

“Gentiles, I suppose?”

“And neophytes!”

“What? Neophytes, too--against the missions? Or is it against the
presidio only?”

“It is against every white man, woman and child in every mission,
presidio and rancho,” the sergeant said. “Perhaps even now it is too
late to prevent the success of the thing. It has been planned with
diabolical cunning. Every post will be attacked simultaneously, every
white man slain except a few chosen frailes and a few renegades.”

“Renegades?”

“The ones who have plotted the thing. This is no murderous raid
planned by a few disgruntled gentiles. It is the greatest thing we
yet have had to endure, I tell you! Here--I have written orders for
you! The Governor is coming down El Camino Real with a force. We in
the north are prepared and ready, but here in the south difficulties
are expected. Here is the hotbed of mutiny at present--and here one of
their leaders!”

“Their leader--here?”

“Your orders! You see the first? Get him, dead or alive, sparing no
effort, and promotion is yours! Get him if you would not have this post
wiped off the face of the earth! Get him--Captain Fly-by-Night!”

“Fly-by-Night!” the _comandante_ exclaimed.

“The smoothest renegade unhung! He is the brains of the thing! For
months he has been at work planning it, and half that time he was an
associate of the Governor, playing at cards and dice with him, drinking
and eating with him. He even came south recently with a Governor’s pass
in his belt. At Santa Barbara we gave him refreshments, the cur! And
when he won a mule from another traveller and continued his journey
south--in haste he was, mark you!--we were even pleased to think he had
won. May the good saints let me face him with blade in hand again!”

“Again?”

“I faced the cur once--at Santa Barbara--and he disarmed me almost
with a single pass. But I did not know him then! Let me face him now,
when I know what he is! ’Tis a clever cur! He fooled a fray at San
Fernando--the fray aided him and detained a traveller of merit. A good
Governor’s man at Reina de Los Angeles sat up and watched while the
scoundrel slept like a baby. Only at San Juan Capistrano and south did
he meet rebuffs, and then not because any knew of his perfidy, but
because he had seen fit to insult the name of some rancho girl----”

“Ah!” the _comandante_ cried. “There will be promotion for me in this!”

“Catch him first! You little know your man!”

“Do I not? Did I not refuse him hospitality recently because of that
same insult? Did I not almost cross blades with him within the past
forty hours, and remembered barely in time that an officer does not
fight with an adventurer?”

“It perhaps were well for the officer you remembered that,” the
sergeant muttered.

“Bah! Captain Fly-by-Night, eh? A boaster and braggart!”

“Think not that! He is a fighter, that man, as well as a scoundrel! And
you have him here?”

“He camps like a fool beside the creek at the mission, believing
himself secure, no doubt, perhaps meeting his Indian gentiles and doing
his plotting almost inside the mission walls.”

“Get him! Do not let him escape and reach his Indians, or nothing can
stop the attack. The dogs know their conspiracy is discovered, and may
move sooner than was expected. Those in the north wait for the attack
to begin here at San Diego de Alcalá. Runners will carry the news, and
the raid will flash up the coast like fire before a gale!”

“It will be an easy matter to get him,” the lieutenant observed,
getting up from his stool.

The beating of horse’s hoofs came to them through the open window; they
heard the sentry’s challenge and quick steps in the barracks-room, a
knock at the door.

“Enter!” the _comandante_ called, and a corporal hurried into the room.

“There has been trouble at the mission,” he reported, standing at
salute. “Rojerio Rocha, who is to wed the Señorita Anita, rebuked this
Captain Fly-by-Night for his conduct, and they fought.”

“The result?”

“Señor Rocha was wounded. The neophytes attacked Captain Fly-by-Night
then, but he mounted his horse and escaped. He has gone up the cañon.
Rocha demands that he be pursued; some others think this should not be,
since it was a fair duel.”

“Escaped!” Sergeant Cassara cried, getting half up from the stool. “He
will be with his Indians within the hour--perhaps he has been warned.
He’ll strike the blow earlier!”

But the lieutenant was already rushing toward the door.

“Sound the trumpet!” he cried. “Into the hills after that man! Get
him, dead or alive--remember that! Let only two men remain here at the
presidio. I have kept my hands off the dog because I had no orders to
the contrary--but I have orders now! Here--one of you give aid to this
exhausted sergeant who brought the news!”

But Sergeant Cassara had no need of aid at that moment. He had sprawled
over the end of the table as if a man had run him through from behind,
his head pillowed upon his arms, and he was snoring.



CHAPTER X

OUTLAWED


The caballero stopped his horse on the crest of a hill a mile from
the mission and looked back at the valley. For more than an hour he
had been riding aimlessly, aware that it would be worse than useless
to return at the present time and face the angered neophytes--angered
not so much because of their love for the man he had wounded, since
they never had seen him until this day, as because of the pain, they
thought, his defeat would cause Señorita Anita Fernandez, whom they had
learned to adore.

And now, in the distance, he observed a squad of horsemen leave the
plaza and start out along the road toward him, and he saw the sun
flashing from steel and knew them for soldiers.

“I did not think it of him--that he would have me pursued because of
a duel,” the caballero said, aloud. “The thrust could not have been
serious. Heaven knows I have used it many a time, and never death came
from it yet.”

He watched until the horsemen were within half a mile and then
remembered that he sat his steed against the sky and could be easily
seen. He was seen--for he heard the soldiers’ cries and saw that they
were spurring up their horses.

The caballero did not know this country as the troopers did, but he
made his way down the side of the hill to the floor of the cañon, where
there was a narrow trail, and along this he galloped swiftly, knowing
well his horse was as fresh and swift as any that followed.

At the end of a mile he stopped to listen, and heard the beating of
horses’ hoofs and the cries of their riders. He went on along the
cañon, hoping he would not find himself cornered against the side of
some steep hill where there would be no way of escape.

There was a curve in the trail presently, and rocks prevented him
seeing what was beyond, but he did not slacken his horse’s speed. He
took the curve on a run and emerged into an open space where there was
a tiny stream, a few dwarfed trees, green grass and wild flowers--an
oasis in a desert. Scores of teepees stood along the brook, heaps of
ashes told where fires had been. The caballero remembered his Indian
visitors had spoken of a camp in the cañon, and supposed this to be the
place.

But no horde of gentiles rushed from the teepees to accost him and
demand his business, and it was apparent that the camp had been
deserted. On the opposite side of the open space a trail led off toward
the south, and the caballero, without even pulling rein, rode toward
it, determined to follow it until he threw off pursuit.

His horse splashed across the brook and sprang into the mouth of the
trail, to half whirl with a snort of fright and start up the side
of the rocky hill. Swinging far out to one side and standing in his
stirrups, the caballero pulled on the reins and jerked the beast back
into the path--and an Indian grasped the bridle.

“_Señor!_” he shouted.

“Out of my way! The soldiers pursue!”

“Swing me up behind you, _señor_. There is a way of escape!”

“Haste, then!”

The Indian vaulted to the horse’s back; the animal dashed away up the
trail.

“The soldiers will travel slowly, _señor_, until they are past the
old camp,” the Indian shrieked in his ear. “They will fear an ambush
because you rode straight up the cañon. Watch to your right for an
arroyo--turn into it!”

There was scant time for speculation with the troopers at his heels,
and the caballero had no reason for believing the Indian was attempting
treachery, especially since his pursuers were soldiers. He came to the
arroyo and whirled the horse into it, sand and gravel flying in a cloud
behind as he rode. Far in the rear there was shouting, and a single
shot as some soldier fired his pistol, thinking he saw the quarry.

“On, _señor_,” the Indian urged.

The horse was having heavy going in the sand with the double burden
on its back, but the caballero urged the animal to do its utmost. The
arroyo ran into another cañon fringed with stunted trees, and continued
into a sort of basin, where there seemed but the one way in or out. It
looked like a death trap.

The Indian sprang to the ground and ran ahead. He parted a clump of
brush, and the caballero saw the mouth of a cave big enough for a
horseman to enter. He did not hesitate when his guide motioned that he
was to ride inside, but he did not ride in--he dismounted and led the
horse, and one hand gripped the butt of his pistol.

The Indian closed the brush about the entrance and turned to lead the
way, walking a few paces ahead of the caballero, and soon they were in
darkness.

“Follow closely, _señor_,” he said. “It would not do to have a light
here, but the floor is level and safe.”

Since he was this far, there was nothing else to be done, so the
caballero followed, half expecting to come to combat at any moment,
straining his ears for whispers ahead or sounds of the pursuit behind.
They reached a large-sized chamber, and the Indian took him by the hand
to guide him across it, and on the other side they entered a narrow
tunnel, made a turning, and so came to where they could see a streak of
light in the distance.

“It is safe to stop here, _señor_,” the Indian said. “The soldiers
do not know of this cave beneath the hill, and, if they found the
entrance, they would fear to enter without torches. At a late hour you
can leave safely. Just ahead is a way out, and it is on the other side
of the hill.”

“So your camp in the cañon is abandoned?” the caballero asked, sitting
on a boulder.

“We slipped away early, _señor_, a few of us at a time, not taking
the trouble to remove the teepees. The word has been sent to all, and
men are leaving every rancheria and village. We obeyed as soon as we
received your message.”

“As soon as you----? Yes, of course!”

“By the middle of to-night nearly all will be on the Fernandez rancho,
_señor_. Every hut will be crowded, and there will be a big camp in the
cañon there. It was wise to make the gathering-place there, _señor_,
where hundreds of men may hide until all is ready. And from there it is
an easy five miles across the hills to the mission.”

“I understand that.”

“We considered it clever of you, also, to send the word from San Luis
Rey de Francia and in a roundabout manner. It was well that we were
warned that all had been discovered, and that the big sergeant from
Santa Barbara had come along El Camino Real to put missions and the
presidio on guard.”

The caballero sat up straight and looked keenly at the face he scarcely
could see in the gloom.

“I did not know that,” he said.

“You did not know it? The old man beside the roadway at San Luis Rey
de Francia sent out the warning. This sergeant told the frailes there
that the conspiracy was known, that the Governor was coming south with
soldiers, and that in the north leaders had been seized and thrown in
prison to be shot. But Captain Fly-by-Night, the greatest leader of
all, was at San Diego de Alcalá and was to be taken immediately, before
he could join the Indians--that was the word, _señor_. Thank Heaven you
were not taken!”

“So they have orders to take Captain Fly-by-Night, eh?” cried the
caballero. “Now I know why those troopers were eager to catch me.”

“What did you think, _señor_?”

“I had an argument at San Diego de Alcalá with the man they call
Rojerio Rocha, who arrived this morning--a sword argument, gentile--and
I ran him through. I supposed the soldiers sought me because of that.
Catch Captain Fly-by-Night, eh?” The caballero rose and paced the floor
of the cave, laughing to himself so loudly that the gentile before
him cautioned silence. “So all is known, eh? I am to be taken dead or
alive, I suppose? Now I am, indeed, cut off from all reputable persons.”

“Then now is the time to strike the blow, _señor_. We can be victorious
if we strike it before the Governor comes. We can wipe the mission and
presidio from the earth, _señor_! We can devastate every rancho! And
when we start, the word will run up the coast, and at other posts and
missions our friends will strike. We cannot fail, _señor_! Give the
word--give the word to-night!”

“If I counsel that you wait?”

“Why delay? Other leaders have been seized. If we do not strike
successfully, suspected gentiles and neophytes will be slain by
hundreds by the Governor’s men. It is all in your hands now, _señor_.
You will be like a king! Give the word to-night!”

“If I think it best to delay----?”

“I am afraid, _señor_, that the men will not do as you order, in that
case. They are frightened now. They know they are lost if they do not
strike immediately. They may even turn against you----”

“Hah!”

“It is to be expected, _señor_--many of them will pay forfeit with
their lives if the conspiracy is not successful. Come with me to the
rancho as soon as night falls, _señor_--and give the word. Every hour
we delay they will be making preparations at the mission and presidio.”

“At least,” replied the caballero, “I’ll go with you to the rancho at
fall of night.”

The Indian showed his delight in his face. Without a word he slipped
away down the cave toward the streak of light in the distance, and the
caballero stood beside his horse, listening, waiting, trying to pierce
the gloom with his eyes.

“Dead or alive, eh?” he muttered. “I would I had slain this pretty
gentleman at San Diego de Alcalá when I had the opportunity!”

It was an hour before the gentile returned--an hour during which the
caballero often led his horse through the cave to the exit and looked
out over the valley, but dared not leave until he received the Indian’s
report. And then the native slipped in past the rocks and stood before
him.

“I have been over the hill, _señor_,” he said. “The soldiers burned the
camp in the cañon and then went back. They have been scattered over the
hills, and two rode away down the valley, probably to spread the alarm
and warn rancho owners to watch for you. It will soon be dark, and we
can leave this cave.”

“The soldiers will remain in the hills for the night?” the caballero
asked.

“They would fear to do that, _señor_, if they think we contemplate
an attack. They will return to the mission, perhaps, and spend the
night there, and go into the hills at dawn again. Two men remain at
the presidio with the sergeant who brought the warning, I heard them
say. If we could take the presidio to-night, _señor_, and get the arms
there----”

“It may be a trap,” the caballero said. “I know the tricks of the
soldiers, remember. It would be better to be guided by me in these
matters.”

The gentile replied nothing, but the expression of his face told
that he was not pleased. For another hour they remained in the cave,
scarcely speaking, and then the Indian crept to the entrance, remained
there for a time, and returned to say that it was time to go.

Emerging from the cavern, they made their way slowly, and as silently
as possible, down the slope to the floor of the cañon, and along this
they hurried, the Indian leading, the caballero walking beside his
horse.

Out upon a plain trail that ran to the south the caballero mounted,
with the gentile behind him. At a trot they went along the trail,
stopping now and then to listen for sounds of other horsemen, the
caballero waiting at every likely ambush until the Indian had made an
investigation.

For a time they followed another arroyo, finally to come into a broad
valley where there were fields of grain and horses and cattle. At the
crest of the slope lights glittered in the buildings of the rancho.

But the Indian did not indicate that they were to go toward the lights.
He whispered directions in the caballero’s ear, and they circled the
buildings, and so came to the bank of a creek flowing from a group of
springs. Down this they made their way to a small basin. A voice hailed
them; the gentile answered; they went on. And then they turned the base
of a hill and came within sight of two score campfires and groups of
teepees, where half-naked gentiles danced around the flames, and others
squatted on the ground watching.

In an instant they were surrounded and questions hurled at them,
menacing at first, better-natured when the caballero’s guide made
himself heard and gave the identity of the man with whom he rode. A
young chief ordered his followers to one side, and himself took the
caballero’s bridle, and led the horse past the fires to a teepee at
the end of the row. There the caballero dismounted and sat upon a skin
spread on the ground. No word was spoken while a man brought out food
and wine and the caballero ate.

One by one other chiefs made their appearance to sit before the fire in
a circle. In the distance groups of warriors gathered to look at their
leaders and talk in low tones.

“We have had a messenger, _señor_,” a chief spoke, finally. “He came
from the mission at nightfall. All is known to the soldiers, this man
says. They have orders to capture you, dead or alive. The Governor is
coming south with a large force. Our friends in the north wait for us
to act. And we await the word from you.”

“You will be guided by me in this matter?” the caballero asked.

“If you counsel immediate attack, _señor_. What is to be gained now by
delay? The soldiers from the north may arrive within three days. If we
strike now, we succeed before they come.”

Grunts of approval came from the others, and the caballero, looking
around the circle, read in the faces there that the words of the
spokesman expressed the sentiments of all.

“We have considered the matter to-day,” the chief went on. “Our leaders
in the north have been seized. Of all white men who aided us in forming
this plan, you alone are at liberty. We thank you, _señor_, for what
you have done. We want to follow you, yet. But we cannot unless you
give the word now. Our race is strong in itself, _señor_; often before
we have waited on the words of white men and been betrayed.”

“What is it you want me to do?” the caballero asked.

“Give the word, _señor_! Our friends at San Luis Rey de Francia will
be ready to strike the blow two nights from now, and it is proper we
strike together. What say you, _señor_?”

“I counsel longer delay,” the caballero replied.

“Can you give us good reason?” the chief demanded. “Your words are
peculiar to our ears, _señor_. We had expected you would be eager to
make the move. Many things have mystified us, and we are suspicious
because of what has happened before. As I said, we have considered the
matter, and we have reached a decision.”

“What is it, then?”

“Either give us the word now to attack in two nights’ time, or we
attack without your word, _señor_. To be certain there will be no
treachery we will hold you prisoner here, but well treated, until the
attack is begun. We do this because of the aid you have given our
cause. And after it is over you shall be treated with respect, and no
man will harm you. Lead us in two nights’ time, _señor_, or we strike
without your leadership and keep you prisoner until the work is done.”

The caballero swept the circle with his eyes; every man there seemed to
approve.

“There are many plans to be made yet,” he said. “I must counsel delay
for a time.”

“We have made all plans while awaiting you, _señor_. It is but for you
to lead. The plans may be discussed in half a day’s time, and changed
if we decide they should be. If there is a rancho you wish spared, or a
man or woman saved----”

“Do I not know what is best in this matter?” the caballero demanded.
“Do as I instruct, or I will have nothing further in common with you!”

“That is your answer, _señor_?”

“It is. I counsel more delay!”

“Then we have decided. You will remain in this camp until the blow is
struck. I regret, _señor_, that your ideas are not ours, but we have
gone too far to risk failure. Our friendship for you remains the same;
it is merely a disagreement between leaders in a council of war. You
will remain in the camp as we ask, _señor_?”

“Suppose I prefer to ride?” said the caballero.

“We cannot take that risk, _señor_. If you leave, we must consider you
an enemy.”

Another series of grunts came from the circle; again the caballero read
determination in the faces that confronted him. He got up, and the
others did likewise.

“I suppose I may have a teepee, food, picket my horse?” he asked.

“You shall have every courtesy, _señor_. This teepee is yours, food
will be furnished, you may picket your horse behind you.”

“So be it!”

The caballero caught the reins from the Indian who had been holding
them and led the animal to the rear of the teepee. The chiefs scattered
to their own huts; the men resumed their dancing around the fires. The
caballero threw the reins over his horse’s head and started to fumble
at the cinch of the saddle.

The spokesman turned his head aside for an instant to look at the
dancers, and in that instant, the caballero vaulted to the horse’s
back, shrieked a cry in the animal’s ear, gathered up reins and applied
spurs, and dashed past the chief and down the arroyo.

Shrieks of surprise and fear rolled from a hundred throats. The group
about the first fire scattered; the horse kicked the embers in the
faces of the gentiles. Down the line of fires the caballero rode like
a madman, hurling Indians right and left, while behind the chiefs,
realising what he was doing, yelled orders to take him, screamed for
horsemen to go in pursuit, called for weapons.

Pistols exploded, bullets whistled past him as he rode. Unscathed he
reached the darkness and dashed down the valley, while the hoofs of
hard-ridden ponies pounded in pursuit. He fired his pistol in the face
of an Indian sentinel who would have sprung at the horse’s head--and
then he rode madly, blindly, trusting to the sure-footedness of the
steed he bestrode.

The animal took the backward track, half maddened with fear and gunning
like the wind. The caballero bent low over the beast’s neck and let
reins fall free. He did not fear being overtaken, but he did not know
what was ahead. Soldiers sought him--dead or alive. Indians would slay
him without hesitation now, fearful he would use treachery against
them. El Camino Real was watched. Rancho owners were on the alert for
him. He was an outlaw in truth, and in a strange country.

Mile after mile he rode, until his horse began to stagger in its
stride, and then, emerging from the mouth of a cañon he saw lights in
the distance and stopped to reconnoitre. The wash of the sea came to
his ears. The horse had circled the valley--and the lights ahead were
in the presidio.

“Now I _am_ cut off,” quoth the caballero, “from the society of all
persons, both reputable and disreputable! Riding alone, however, I
shall not be hindered by the opinions of followers. And--by all the
saints!--I have much work to do!”



CHAPTER XI

AT THE PRESIDIO


Not a light showed in the Indian huts of tide and straw that clustered
near the presidio. From behind the walls came no whisperings of
conspiracy, no cries of children in their dreams, no mumblings of
women. Since nightfall they had been slipping away down the coast
and back into the hills--the men to hurry to their camps, women and
children to seek refuge in the wilderness until the war should be
over--exactly as they had done in every uprising since the coming of
Serra and his coadjutors.

Even the mangy curs that generally infested the road were gone, and
so there was none to bark and snap at the heels of the caballero as
he made his way slowly toward the presidio, walking silently, holding
the scabbard of his sword so it would not strike against boot or spur,
stopping every few yards to peer into the night, to listen for some
sound above the wash of the sea that would apprise him of the nearness
of danger.

Standing beside the bole of a palm he looked up at the structure atop
the knoll. The gate was closed, but light came over the wall, and he
could hear the sound of voices raised in argument. Then there came to
his ears the shrieking of an Indian, a raucous Spanish voice raised in
anger and command, the sound of a lash striking into bare skin.

He left the tree and crept through the shadows, avoiding the front,
going to the left. Standing against the wall he listened again.

“Tell us, dog!” Sergeant Cassara was shouting. “Tell us, or by the
saints we’ll have your hide in strips! Be stubborn before your betters,
will you?”

The lash fell again; again the Indian shrieked; coarse laughter smote
the air.

“’Tis well we caught one of you!” the sergeant was saying now. “Sneak
away like the coyotes you are, will you? Where is that camp--tell us!”

“_Señor_--_señor_--I cannot tell!” the Indian screeched.

“Will not, you mean! Cannot, you hound, when every gentile and neophyte
within a score of miles knows of it? Where have the others gone, then?
Answer me that!”

“One by one they slipped away, _señor_.”

“And you do not know where, eh?”

“I--I cannot tell, _señor_.”

“Will not, you mean?”

“_Si señor!_ I _will_ not!”

The Indian’s voice changed; the caballero listening by the wall knew
what the change meant--stoical resignation to his fate was upon the red
man now; he expected to be beaten, perhaps slain, and he was ready.

“Now, by all the saints, this thing passes a jest!” the sergeant cried.
“With the dogs a hundred to one against us, it is proper we should
have all information, else soldiers may ride in one direction while
gentiles advance from another and sweep all before them. And here is a
man admitting he knows where the conspirators’ camp lies, and refusing
to tell his betters. For the last time, hound, will you speak?”

“I cannot tell you, _señor_!”

“You realise what is to happen to you if you do not?”

“It is easy to guess _señor_.”

The caballero hurried on around the wall until he came to a small
rear gate, used generally to take in supplies. It, too, was barred on
the inside; but it was studded on the outside with heavy bolts, and
the caballero, using these for footholds and handholds, made his way
laboriously to the top of the wall.

He raised his head carefully, and peered over. All was darkness in that
corner of the enclosure. He pulled himself up and dropped over, and for
an instant crouched in the shadows against the wall, listening. But no
challenge rang out, and he decided the two soldiers left behind with
Cassara were inside the barracks-room.

Silently he walked across to the wall of the building, and silently he
followed it until he could peer through a window. He looked into an
officers’ room, but through the open door he could see the interior of
the barracks-room proper.

An Indian stood in the centre of it, his hands behind his back, his
body tall and straight, his face expressionless. Before him was
Sergeant Cassara with lash in his hand. The two soldiers sat to one
side on stools before a small table with wine cups before them.

Sergeant Cassara swung the whip through the air, and the lash curled
around the Indian’s body. There was no shriek this time--the gentile’s
eyes closed for a moment, flickered, then opened wide, and his body
swayed forward a bit as the sergeant jerked the whip back.

“Speak!” he commanded. “Tell us the whereabouts of the camp, dog!”

Again the lash was raised. The caballero did not wait to see the
result. He walked on around the building, and came to the open door.
There he took his pistol from his belt, gripped it for action, stepped
into the path of light, took a quick step--and had entered the
barracks-room and was standing before them.

“Allow me to tell you the location of the camp, Sergeant Cassara!” he
said.

The whip dropped to the floor and the sergeant’s hand dropped to the
hilt of his sword. The two soldiers had sprung to their feet, but
muskets and pistols were on the other side of the room, and the muzzle
of the caballero’s weapon menaced them.

“Stand as you are!” the caballero ordered. “At least I will drive the
soul of the first man who moves to eternity. As you are!”

“Captain Fly-by-Night, by all the saints!” Cassara cried. “Hah! He
walks into a trap!”

“Beater of gentiles, he spares you the instant death you deserved!”
answered the caballero. “Move if you like! This pistol of mine gets
one, and, as for the others----”

“The others, perhaps, when we do move, will live to see you shot!”
Cassara growled.

“Indeed? Careful there, soldier! Your hand may be itching to grasp a
pistol, but there is a sure cure here for the itch!”

The Indian slipped like a shadow toward a window.

“Stop!” the caballero commanded. “I have need of you, gentile. You are
a brave man to refuse these soldiers information. See if you are brave
enough, now, to turn them into helpless slaves. There are thongs in
the corner, I perceive. Get them, and fasten the hands of that nearest
soldier behind his back!”

“Now by all----” Cassara began.

“Swear not, sergeant! It amuses me to have this done. It was
information you desired, I believe, and I am going to give it you,
also ask some in return.... Fasten those bonds well, gentile!... I
understand, sergeant, it was you came dashing along El Camino Real with
word that I was to be taken, dead or alive?”

“I had that pleasure, caballero!”

“Um! And by what right----?”

“By right of order from his excellency, caballero. Your description
came down the highway along with news of the uprising you had planned.
Captain Fly-by-Night, eh? Swindler, gambler, thief! If the saints spare
me and place me before you with naked blade in my hand----!”

“You had that privilege once, I believe!”

“Hah!”

“And may have it again one day, sergeant.... Gentile, take the second
soldier now, and when you have bound them, make them sit on their
stools, and tie their legs. We are to have some conversation, and I
cannot watch three men well and talk at the same time.”

The Indian went about his work gladly, remembering the many beatings he
had received, and groans from his victims told that he was careful to
make the bonds tight enough. Watching the sergeant as a hawk watches
its prey, never letting the muzzle of his pistol waver, the caballero
stood just inside the door, smiling, humming a bit of song. In time the
two soldiers were bound to their stools, and the Indian stood to one
side.

“Get more thongs, gentile,” the caballero ordered. “Make them strong
for the sergeant here.”

“You dare to order a dog of a gentile to tie me up like a pig?” Cassara
cried.

“I pay you the compliment of considering you too dangerous to be
allowed free, soldier.... At your work, gentile, and fear not. A move
from the man will send a bullet tumbling into his heart. Lash his hands
well!”

If looks could have killed, the caballero was a dead man already.
Sergeant Cassara’s eyes flamed, his lower jaw shot out, his face turned
purple in rage. But he made no move while his hands were being fastened
securely, for the caballero was not smiling now, and the sergeant knew
he could expect a shot if he made a move. But he could talk!

“Caballero,” he said, “for this you shall die! If ever I am free and
stand before you, I’ll have your life if I am forced to take it with my
bare hands!”

“You are bloodthirsty, _señor_.”

“May I live to be the laughing-stock of El Camino Real if I do not wipe
out this insult you have put upon me!”

“You have orders to take me dead or alive, have you not?”

“I have, caballero!”

“Do you blame me, then, for having you trussed up? I value my life,
sergeant, and at present I value my liberty. There are things to be
done.”

“And there are things to be undone, thanks to your treason--things that
will cost scores of good lives!”

“Indeed?... Put him on his stool now, gentile, and see that his great
legs are fastened to it.... Careful, sergeant! My trigger finger shakes
with nervousness this night!”

“Your heart will quiver with fear before you die, caballero.”

“We grow tragic, eh? Now, sergeant, since you are safe and comfortable,
I am at your service in the matter of granting information. You wished
to know where the hostiles have their camp, I believe? It is on the
Fernandez rancho, sergeant, five miles beyond the mission.”

“It is likely you speak the truth.”

“However, I am speaking the truth, sergeant. The camp is where I have
said. Gentiles and disloyal neophytes are gathering there every hour,
as they are gathering near San Luis Rey de Francia and at other points
along the coast.”

“You are bold to say it? And what do you here with a price on your
head, caballero?”

“I came to seize the presidio, sergeant. I have accomplished that, I
believe.”

The sergeant volleyed curses.

“What a soldier you would make, were you a loyal man!” he said, his
outburst over.

“And, since I must dine and sleep, I intend to do it here,” the
caballero went on.

“Hah! Sleep here, will you, caballero?”

“_Si_, in the presidio, sergeant mine. You think, perhaps, to get free
of your bonds while I sleep, and capture me in turn? You must indeed
have given little attention to what was transpiring.... Gentile, fetch
wine and food from the rear room!... Why, sergeant mine, suppose I tell
you that the blow has fallen, eh? Suppose I say that while you played
with this Indian your soldiers have been slain in the hills, and the
mission sacked and burned?

“Suppose I tell you that flame and steel are sweeping the coast
to-night, and that around the wall of this presidio I have a hundred
good men anxious to have your life and the lives of these two soldiers
here? Suppose I merely had a fancy to capture the three of you
single-handed and have a gentile tie you up? Eh? Think you I can sleep
here to-night in security?”

“Renegade!” the sergeant cried.

“Why not give me thanks for entering alone and saving your life,
instead of letting you be cut to pieces by hostiles?... Ah, you have
the food and wine, gentile? Place them on the table!”

The caballero put the pistol back in his belt and drew off his
gauntlets, and advanced toward the table, to draw up a stool and
begin devouring the food. Neither of the soldiers spoke a word;
Sergeant Cassara sputtered meaningless syllables in his wrath. Slowly,
deliberately, the caballero ate his meat and bread and drank his wine,
afterward dipping his hands into water the gentile fetched, and wiping
them on his zarape.

“I have been thinking,” he said, “of having some amusement. What do you
say, sergeant, to a game of cards?”

“With Captain Fly-by-Night? Did you ever play an honest game, _señor_?”

“An abundance of them, sergeant mine. What say you to a game now? We
can make the stakes alluring.”

“I can guess now how you won the mule at Santa Barbara.”

“Indeed? Perhaps I can propose a more interesting game now,
sergeant.... Gentile, close that door and bar it!... You are anxious,
you say, to stand before me with naked blade. Let us play, then, and if
you win you’ll have that chance.”

“And, if I do not win----?”

“If you lose, sergeant, you are to walk from this building, without
weapons--and take what comes!”

The sergeant shivered. He visualised a throng of maniac hostiles
crouching against the wall silently, waiting with eager hands to
grasp him. He imagined tortures and indignities without a chance of
resistance prior to a terrible death. He knew the caballero was
watching him, yet the picture overcame him, and for the first time he
could not meet another man’s eyes.

“Well?” the caballero asked.

“Make it that I can have a naked blade, at least, and die fighting as
a soldier should, caballero. If you have good blood in your veins, if
ever you rejoiced in the name of gentleman, grant me this!”

“You are taking the flavour out of our game. I did not think you would
beg favours.”

“Beg favours of you! Then I do not, caballero. Do as you will with
me--I’ll have none of your game.”

“Yet I must have some amusement before I go to sleep. Suppose you three
soldiers have the game between you? Dice with death, eh? The two who
throw lowest will be given to the hostiles. The one who throws highest
will receive life and liberty.”

“I live or die with my comrades, caballero! I do not gamble with them
in a matter of life or death!”

“Sergeant Cassara,” said the caballero, “you are a good soldier and a
loyal man.”

He arose and bowed, and walked to the door. Taking down the bars
and motioning for the gentile to stand there, he went out into the
darkness. Near the wall he listened for a time, but heard nothing. He
was quite sure the remainder of the soldiers would spend the night at
the mission, else in the hills, but it was best to be certain and not
be caught like a rat in a trap.

Returning to the barracks-room, he closed and barred the door again,
drank another swallow of wine, and stepped across to the officers’ room.

“I leave you until morning, _señores_,” he said. “Your fate will be
decided then.... Gentile, attend me!”

And then, followed by the Indian, he entered the other room and closed
the door behind him.

“I can trust you?” he asked the gentile.

“To the death, _señor_. You saved me from a beating. And are you not
Captain Fly-by-Night?”

“Fetch me quill, ink and paper from that shelf. So! I have a message to
write.”

“I am to carry it, _señor_?”

“No. You are to slip outside, climb the wall, and take station at the
corner of it. If you hear horsemen in the distance you are to warn me
at once--you understand?”

“But the others----”

“What others?”

“The hundred men waiting outside, _señor_.”

“Ah! ’Twas a jest at the expense of our sergeant. There has been no
attack yet. And I am here alone.”

“Then you are in grave danger, _señor_? How does it happen you are here
alone, when the soldiers hope to capture you? Why are you not at the
camp?”

“That is my business, gentile!”

“But the camp--! You have betrayed it! You have told the true location
to these men!”

“Do not let that concern you, gentile.”

“It is, perhaps, a trick to fool them, to draw them into a trap?”

“Did I not say for you to attend to your own affairs, gentile? In a
moment I shall be angry. Watch outside, as I instructed. If any one
approaches, warn me at once. Look in at the window now and then, and be
sure those in the other room do not get free. And come here to awaken
me in three hours’ time.”

“It shall be done, _señor_.”

The gentile went out; the caballero sat at the table and wrote his
message, and read it, and laughed lightly.

“I risk capture perhaps, but I must get some sleep,” he told himself.
He extinguished the lantern the gentile had carried from the other
room, barred the door, saw that the window was fastened securely, and
stretched himself on the floor close to the wall.

A pounding on the door awakened him; he sprang to his feet.

“_Señor! Señor!_” the voice of the Indian was calling.

“I am here!”

“The time is up, _señor_!”

“Ah! From the din, I supposed the Governor approached with a large
force!”

It was a yawning caballero who threw open the door and stepped into
the barracks-room to face three wide-awake soldiers with angry faces.
Sergeant Cassara was mumbling curses under his breath again, and
tugging at his bonds. The caballero smiled at him pleasantly as he
advanced to the table and took the wine cup the gentile had filled.

“It desolates me to leave such good company,” he said, “but duty
calls. Have you been worrying these past few hours, sergeant, that the
hostiles outside the wall would enter and tear you limb from limb?”

“I suppose you will hand us over to them, renegade! Be a man for once!
Release but one of my arms, give me a sword and let me face you!”

“The Governor has need of your sword-arm, I believe. As for the
hostiles waiting outside, sergeant--please to remember that I said
‘suppose’ when I spoke of them. I am a truthful man and would not be
considered otherwise. If you have felt fear, then I am sorry, for there
was no cause. This gentile here is perhaps the only one within half a
score of miles at present.”

“Hah!” the sergeant cried.

“If it was a subterfuge, consider that it was necessary, for I was
forced to have food and sleep, and you had orders to take me dead or
alive.... Gentile, go outside and watch!... And you, sergeant, attend
me closely. The blow has not fallen yet; I said ‘suppose’ when speaking
of that, too. What I told you about the location of the Indians’ camp
is true. Pass the word along. And pass the word also that the hostiles
will attack night after next, both here and at San Luis Rey de Francia.
Attend me! By the saints, I speak truth! It is a warning I have brought
you at risk of losing liberty.”

“What mean you?” Cassara cried. “You, Captain Fly-by-Night, giving
information like this? Ah! You are a double traitor, eh? The hostiles
have disowned you? You hope to gain pardon from the Governor by aiding
us now to overthrow the conspiracy you have created?”

“Who can tell?” the caballero replied, smiling and drawing on his
gauntlets. “There may come a time when many things will be explained.
_Adios_, sergeant! Give my compliments to His Excellency the Governor.
Ah, yes! I have written a message!”

He spread out the paper and tucked one corner of it in the sergeant’s
belt, and for an instant fumbled with the man’s bonds, so that they
could be loosened in time by hard work. Then he waved a hand in salute
and passed out into the night.

“Gentile,” he said, as the Indian opened the gate for him, “you may
come with me to where I left my horse. You have done more to-night than
you imagine, and while you perhaps are a bloodthirsty wretch not worth
consideration, yet I’ll repay your kindness with another. I give you
this advice--start now toward the south, make good speed, and do not
stop until San Diego de Alcalá is but an elusive memory far in the back
of your mind. By doing that you may live long and prosper. If you do
not understand, I cannot help it, and I have no time now to teach you
understanding. I must ride far before dawn.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Back at the presidio, Sergeant Cassara threw aside the thongs, and tore
the paper from his belt. The written words stared up at him:

  To the man known as the _comandante_: At the mission there is a man
  known as Rojerio Rocha, whom it would profit to watch. This is but a
  bit of advice given freely by the man known as Captain Fly-by-Night.



CHAPTER XII

A TRAGEDY


Señor Lopez turned from the window of the guest house and threw wide
his arms in a gesture meant to indicate that there was a finality to
his statement that would brook no reply.

“It is madness, Rojerio Rocha!” he exclaimed. “You are a wounded man!”

“Wounded? A scratch in the shoulder! My neophyte servant lost twice the
blood, and he is as active as ever this morning. Would you have me show
less endurance than an Indian cur?”

“You do not realise the state of the times, _señor_. You heard what the
_comandante_ said yesterday when he passed this way in pursuit of the
odious Captain Fly-by-Night? ‘’Tis a widespread revolt,’ he said, ‘and
may break out at any time. This Fly-by-Night heads it. He is here to
see the culmination of his plans.’ Would that you had run him through!”

“I would that I had, _señor_!”

“In the shadows of our mission walls he has met his gentiles and
conspired, no doubt. We do not know which of the natives here at the
mission are corrupted and which are loyal. Now that his conspiracy is
known and he has been driven to the hills, he may gather his horde of
savages and attack at any time. So I say it would be madness, Rojerio
Rocha, for you to go to the rancho this morning.”

The younger man stopped pacing the room and stood before the fireplace
in an attitude of determination.

“Rumours of Indian uprisings are as thick as buds on a pepper-tree,” he
said. “The rancho is only five miles from the mission. Señorita Anita
and Señora Vallejo can ride in a carreta while we ride horses. I am
anxious to see the rancho of which I have inherited the half. Things
may be going to ruin there.”

“Of course, there are the soldiers--” Lopez began.

“Let some of them accompany us. They are looking for this Captain
Fly-by-Night, and they are as like to find him in the neighbourhood of
the rancho as elsewhere. Your Indians will not attack if we have half a
dozen troopers along, and they will not attack in daytime at any rate.
If things do not look as they should we can return this evening. It is
but a journey of five miles.”

“Your argument is a good one, Rojerio Rocha, but I still think it would
be madness to make the trip.”

“I wish it. I am tired of the mission already. Was it not the intention
for me to take over the rancho immediately and wed Señorita Anita after
a proper interval? If you hope to be continued in the post of manager,
Señor Lopez, do not begin our acquaintance by opposing everything I
wish.”

Lopez turned away at that and walked to the window again, although he
did not like the tone of this Rojerio Rocha and imagined there were
unpleasant times ahead. And now the mild Señora Vallejo crossed the
room to rest a hand on the younger man’s arm.

“Perhaps it would be better, Señor Rocha, to take the advice of Señor
Lopez,” she said, in her soft voice.

“You are a very good woman, _señora_,” he replied, “but a poor
contributor to a council of men’s intentions.”

The _señora_, her face flushing, went quickly back to the fireplace.

“And I do not fancy the trip,” Señorita Anita put in, with more spirit
than Señora Vallejo had shown. “I think, Señor Rocha----”

He whirled upon her, and she ceased speaking.

“_Señorita_,” he said, “I am proud to know you, and allow me to say I
am quite sure you were taught not to interfere in any arrangements the
head of the family might see fit to make.”

“Allow me to say that you are not the head of the family yet,” the girl
returned, half angrily.

“I am, however, half owner of the rancho, I believe, through your
father’s will, and I think you may trust me, _señorita_, to handle
these affairs.”

“As to that, you have shown no credentials yet,” the girl burst out.

“Anita!” Señora Vallejo cried.

“Well, he has not!”

“You doubt me?” the young man wished to know. “I shall show my
credentials, prove my name and station, at the proper time, _señorita_,
but certainly not here at the mission. I regret we have had this
little unpleasantness, for I would win your good favour, but I am firm
in my determination to go to the rancho this morning. Perhaps my wound
has made me sensitive.”

The girl crossed the room toward him, all apology, and when she spoke
her voice was softer than it had been before.

“I ask you to pardon me, Rojerio Rocha,” she said. “I had forgotten
that you were wounded in defence of my good name. Since I hope to carry
out the wishes of my dear, dead father, I would be friendly with you,
and I hope that true affection comes. And perhaps I did wrong to voice
my opinion in this matter, being but a girl. It shall be as you wish,
_señor_. We go to the rancho.”

“Excellent, _señorita_! Señor Lopez, you will see that a carreta is
prepared? Have saddles and bridles put on the horses, too, and I’ll
send my neophyte to get his mule. We should start within half an hour.”

Señor Lopez bowed and hurried from the guest house, trying to keep from
showing his anger, giving orders about the carreta and horses. The
wounded neophyte, who had been waiting outside the door, went to get
his mule, staggering slightly and walking slowly because of the blood
he had lost, but expressing lively satisfaction in his face. The animal
was picketed down by the creek, and after putting on bridle and saddle
the Indian led it back toward the plaza to wait until the others should
be ready.

And there he heard a quick step behind him, and a heavy hand descended
on his shoulder and grasped it so that he cried out with the pain as he
whirled around. His eyes blazed for an instant, and then the fire in
them died out and a look of fear came into his face, and he shook like
a culprit, trembling.

“Ah!” rumbled a deep voice he had reason to dread. “So we find our
runaway neophyte here at San Diego de Alcalá, eh? You prefer it to the
Santa Barbara presidio, I take it. What have you to say when I suggest
that I fasten you to a post and give you the beating you deserve?”

The neophyte did not answer, and neither did he attempt an escape, but
his body seemed to shrink and he could not meet Sergeant Cassara’s eyes.

“Like a thief in the night you ran away!” the sergeant went on.
“Without asking permission you left Santa Barbara, where you got good
food for the little shiftless work you did, and received a beating only
every day or so to keep you in order. What are you doing here, dog? It
has been guessed by me these many days that you are disloyal. You would
conspire to slay your betters, eh? Answer me!”

“Par----”

“Do not say it! You must be a pretty rogue with a heavy conscience to
cry for pardon eternally.”

“_Señor!_ You hurt my shoulder!”

“Why do you flinch?”

“There is a sword-thrust through it.”

“And how got you that, cur?”

“Captain Fly-by-Night gave it me yesterday.”

“Never did I expect to call blessings down on the head of that rogue,
but I do so now. And curses also that his blade did not find your black
heart. Ran you through, eh? Well, you are not punished enough. You
shall have a beating yet!”

The sergeant started to walk toward the end of the plaza, not releasing
his grip on the Indian’s shoulder, dragging the unfortunate after him.
Other Indians stopped their work to look, some of them muttering. A
fray hurried toward them. But before he reached the sergeant’s side to
protest Cassara felt his own shoulder gripped and whirled about with a
snarl, letting go of the neophyte and starting to reach for his sword.

“By what right do you man-handle my servant?” were the words dinned
into his ears.

“Your servant? Ah, ’tis the young gentleman who lost the mule at Santa
Barbara in a game of cards, eh? You finally reached San Diego de
Alcalá, then? And what mean you about a servant? This Indian dog is a
runaway neophyte from the Santa Barbara presidio, as you know, having
seen him there, and I am about to render punishment.”

“Runaway he may be, but he also is my servant, and I’ll thank you to
release him.”

“Then you are not in proper company, _señor_. This cur, as I happen to
know, is disloyal. He may cut your throat while you sleep and open the
gates to a savage horde. But if you would have him for servant, take
him, and watch and beat him well. There will be time for me to attend
to him later; at present there are other duties to be performed. Where,
may I ask, can I find a man known as Rojerio Rocha?”

“I am so known, sergeant.”

“Ah! You don’t mind telling your name now, eh? This is different than
it was at Santa Barbara? So you are Rojerio Rocha? I have been told it
might profit me to watch you.”

“What do you mean by that?” the other demanded angrily.

“The meaning is not clear to me. I have but received a warning,
_señor_, and, being a good soldier and these being turbulent times, I
never ignore a warning, no matter from what source it comes nor whom it
concerns. What is your business here?”

“I still retain the Governor’s pass, sergeant.”

“Captain Fly-by-Night has a Governor’s pass, if it comes to that, yet
he scarcely is a reputable person. I believe, in passing, that you had
the honour of crossing blades with him yesterday?”

“I did,” said the other, his white face flushing red.

“And the cause of your quarrel?”

“I do not recognise your right to question.”

“Since my _comandante_ is away in the hills chasing this Fly-by-Night
I am ranking officer here and do as I please, Señor Rocha. I ask the
cause of your quarrel because I would know the extent of enmity between
you and judge as to the value of the hint I have received.”

“You mean I have been denounced by this Fly-by-Night?”

“Precisely, _señor_.”

“Hah! And how did you receive the hint, as you call it? Is
communication open between you and Captain Fly-by-Night, regarding whom
there is an order to take, dead or alive?”

“There was a way of communication,” the sergeant admitted, chewing
vigorously at his moustache and his face flushing in turn.

“I scarcely think you need credit any warning concerning myself that
Fly-by-Night would give. He perhaps hopes to cause me annoyance. We
fought because of a boast he made regarding a certain young lady.”

“Over a woman, eh? If there is a woman in it I am inclined to wash
my hands of the matter. A saint can turn liar when there is a woman
concerned. You might inform me, however, to set my mind at rest,
regarding your business here.”

“I have inherited half of the Fernandez rancho, sergeant, and have come
to take possession.”

“The Fernandez rancho!” the sergeant gasped. “It is there, so this
Captain Fly-by-Night has informed me, that the hostiles are gathering.”

“That is nonsense. I am going out to the rancho immediately with some
ladies, and four soldiers as guards. Would I make the journey if there
was danger, especially with ladies along?”

“Perhaps you are well informed,” the sergeant retorted, “and perhaps,
again, you are not.”

“It appears you give considerable weight to the statements of this
Fly-by-Night.”

“There are times when a man is forced to do so, Señor Rocha,” the
sergeant replied, flushing again. “Does this runaway dog of an Indian
go with you?”

“He does, naturally, since he is my servant.”

“You may be walking into a trap. Yourself, four soldiers and some
ladies would be a great catch for the hostiles.”

“I’ll take care of myself, sergeant, thank you.”

“Um! Since I have a sort of roving commission at the present time, I
think I’ll ride along.”

“I have not asked for your escort, sergeant.”

“Nevertheless, I think I’ll ride along toward the rancho. Your four
soldiers will pay more attention to discipline with a sergeant along.
Besides, I wish to see this far-famed San Diego country; and, at least,
it may pay me to watch this Indian servant of yours. Yes--I believe
I’ll ride along!”

“You force me to say that you will not be welcome, sergeant Four
soldiers are enough.”

“As to that, I penetrate many places where there is no welcome. I am
not supersensitive, Señor Rocha, and my feelings cannot be injured
easily, I assure you. It will not be necessary for me to ride beside
the carreta I see you have ready. I can ride ahead, behind, to one
side.”

“This is almost past endurance.”

“You are a wounded man, and of course cannot endure much,” the sergeant
observed, whirling on his heel and walking toward the other end of the
plaza. Behind him he left a young man with angry face, who gurgled
imprecations.

Señorita Anita came from the guest house now, dressed for the journey,
and Señora Vallejo walked behind her, still muttering protests against
the trip to the rancho at this time. They got in the carreta, and it
started out along the road up the valley. Two soldiers rode ahead and
two behind.

On one side of the carreta Señor Lopez guided his horse and tried not
to show his displeasure; on the other side trotted a young man who
talked to the ladies half the time, and spent the other half glowering
at the mounted sergeant, who galloped about the country far to one
side, now disappearing behind a ledge of rock, now coming into view at
the crest of a hill, but always near.

Just behind the carreta rode the neophyte, a bundle of clothing across
the mule in front of him. There was frank fear in his face whenever one
of the troopers approached him, and always he glanced toward his master
as if expecting a signal or command.

The road followed an arroyo for a mile, and then emerged on a broad,
open space where cattle grazed, thousands of them dotting the
pasturage. Sheep were on the hillsides, and to the left were fields of
grain.

“Is it not a splendid inheritance, Señor Rocha?” Señora Vallejo
murmured.

“It is, indeed,” he replied, and he showed no great amount of
enthusiasm.

Señorita Anita frowned. On this rancho she had been born and reared;
here she had played as a child, and here the frailes from the mission
had come to teach her. In an enclosed space near the ranch-house her
mother was buried, and her father.

She remembered how her father had laboured through disappointments to
triumph to make this a profitable home; how seeds and bulbs had been
imported that there might be beauty there; how proud he had been when
the flocks and herds grew and new buildings were erected.

And now here was his half-heir scarcely giving the place a glance after
having manifested such eagerness to reach it. A little lump came into
Señorita Anita’s throat, and she would not look at the man who rode
beside the carreta, but glanced away toward the distant hills; and a
tear trickled down her cheek.

Now they had reached the top of the slope, and in the distance the
buildings of the rancho could be seen, white against the green
background. To one side were long, low adobe structures around which
many Indians were gathering.

“Too many of the men are inactive,” Señor Lopez growled, anxious for
the younger man to think he had the best interests of the rancho at
heart. “The overseers are not firm enough in handling them. At this
time of the day nearly all should be at work in the fields. It appears
that nine-tenths of them are about the buildings.”

He continued to frown as they neared the ranch-house, and finally rode
ahead at a gallop toward the adobe structures. The Indians did not make
a pretence of being busy as he approached. Some glowered at him as he
passed, others deliberately turned away as he would have spoken to
them in rebuke. He reined in his horse before one of the buildings and
glared down at a score of men sitting round the doorway and stretched
on the ground.

“What means this, dogs?” he demanded. “Why are you not at work?”

Not a voice answered him; some glanced up and then away again, while
others ignored his existence.

“Where are your overseers?” he demanded next. “Where is Antonio, José?
Answer, one of you!”

“We have seen neither this day, _señor_,” one of the men replied.

“Do not talk to me with a crooked tongue! Go to the fields, or I’ll
take the whip to you! As for Antonio and José, we’ll see whether they
can drink wine and waste time while I am away!”

Not an Indian moved to do his bidding. The carreta had stopped before
the ranch-house now, and two of the soldiers left it to ride toward
Lopez, sensing trouble.

“Rojerio Rocha!” Lopez called, but the man he addressed was assisting
Señorita Anita from the carreta, and did not answer.

“Are the dogs mutinous?” one of the soldiers asked.

“Uncivil beasts, all of them!” Lopez replied. “Get about your work
instantly, animals!”

He rode toward them as if to crush those nearest beneath the hoofs
of his horse. Angry mutterings came from the throng, and some of the
Indians sprang to their feet menacingly. An old man in the doorway
of the building shouted something Lopez did not understand, and the
mutterings ceased in an instant and the men scattered, some going
toward the fields, others into the buildings.

Lopez turned to call Rojerio Rocha again, and saw him disappearing
into the house with Señorita Anita and Señora Vallejo. The other two
troopers had dismounted, the carreta was rumbling away toward the
stables, and the neophyte servant was standing near his mule looking
back along the road, for in the distance Sergeant Cassara sat his
horse and contemplated the rancho.

Lopez started to ride slowly toward the house, the two troopers
following. Came a scream from a woman’s throat--then another--a man’s
voice raised in surprise! The two soldiers near the house ran in at
the door. Lopez and the others spurred their mounts and dashed to the
building, there to throw themselves from their saddles and rush inside.

They heard the troopers ahead of them running into the patio. A woman
was crying hysterically. And then they reached the patio themselves, to
stop beneath the arched veranda dumbfounded at the scene confronting
them.

Señora Vallejo was standing against the side of the building, her
face hidden in her hands, sobbing violently. Señorita Anita Fernandez
had fainted in Rojerio Rocha’s arms. And the two troopers stood near
the small fountain in the centre of the patio, where there were two
bodies stretched on the ground. Lopez gave a cry of consternation as he
hurried up to them.

Here were Antonio and José, the two overseers of the rancho, each
sprawled on his face with arms outstretched, each with the hilt of a
knife showing between his shoulder-blades!



CHAPTER XIII

THE EAVESDROPPER


Watching from the distance, Sergeant Cassara observed that the Indians
of the rancho were leaving their adobe buildings in groups, and,
instead of going into the fields to work, were hurrying down the slope
toward a cañon.

The neophyte who waited in front of the ranch-house mounted his mule
after a time, and went toward the cañon himself, urging on his steed as
soon as he was a short distance from the building, until the animal was
running with head down, covering the ground with great leaps.

Already the sergeant had seen the soldiers and Señor Lopez run into the
ranch-house, and he was contented no longer to remain a hundred yards
away and speculate as to what was transpiring. Sergeant Cassara was a
man who enjoyed getting all his information at first hand.

He put spurs to his horse, therefore, and galloped up the road to the
ranch-house, to stop at the corner of the veranda and sit there on his
mount for a moment, listening. He heard the low whimpering of a woman,
and the excited voices of men, and finally dismounted and walked around
the corner of the house, and so came to the patio.

“So! There has been murder done here?” he exclaimed, after surveying
the scene. “Are you all struck dumb and thoughtless? Why stand like so
many statues and do nothing? By the saints, there seems to be not an
ounce of decision amongst you all! You who call yourself Rojerio Rocha
would do well, it seems to me, to carry the _señorita_ into the house
where she will not have to face this bloody scene when she comes from
her faint. One of you troopers assist the _señora_, also. And you, who
are named Lopez, why not start in to investigate this matter?”

“What can be done?” Lopez asked.

“First, who are the victims?”

“The overseers.”

“They have been beating the Indians, I suppose, and some have taken
revenge while the overseers took their siesta. A long siesta they are
enjoying now! Get the bodies away, in the saints’ name! Help him,
soldiers! And then it will be time to deal with the gentiles.”

Lopez called for the house servants, but none answered. There was not
an Indian woman near the place; no children played about the huts in
the rear; and the men, of course, had gone toward the cañon. Sergeant
Cassara stood at the end of the patio and sneered as Lopez began to
realise these things.

“This man who calls himself Rojerio Rocha and takes such a high hand
with affairs evidently was not well informed as to conditions,” the
sergeant suggested.

“I asked him not to come to the rancho to-day,” Lopez returned, “but he
would have it so.”

“He insisted, eh?”

“_Si, señor._”

“But why bring the ladies into danger? Do they not have brains at the
mission in these days?”

“He insisted, also, that the ladies make the journey.”

“Ah! He did? Well, the thing that appeals most to me now is for you
to start your carreta back toward the mission as soon as possible,
and make as good time as you can getting there. The ladies will have
to get over their fright first, of course. I do not like the air
hereabouts--it smells rank of conspiracy and murder.”

“I agree with you, _señor_,” Lopez admitted.

“And while we are waiting for these same ladies to settle their nerves,
why not round up some of these gentiles and propound a few leading
questions? Perhaps we can beat an answer or two out of the dogs.”

“As soon as Señor Rocha returns from the house, sergeant. He is master
here now, and must supervise this business. I do not care to make a
move without his permission.”

“You do not, eh? I am an independent being, thank the good saints! I
suggest you prepare the carreta for the return journey, while I ride
after these gentiles I saw sneaking down into the cañon, and see what
can be discovered. You may follow later if this Señor Rocha is kind
enough to allow you to do so.”

The face of Lopez flushed at the sergeant’s tone, for Cassara was
not careful to refrain from expressing his contempt for a man who
would await the permission of another in such business. He ran to
his horse, sprang to the saddle and galloped down the slope, leaving
Lopez to glare after him. He did not follow the trail taken by the
Indians, however, but rode far to the right and circled a butte, and so
approached the cañon from the opposite side, warily, stopping his horse
now and then to listen.

After a time he dismounted and crept forward, dodging from rock to
rock, bush to bush, until he reached the edge of a precipice and found
the floor of the cañon stretched far below him.

He saw an Indian camp where fully half a thousand warriors had
gathered. They seemed to feel secure in their strength, for they made
no attempt at secrecy now. Some were dancing about their fires, others
were donning war paint, others guarded a herd of ponies. The Santa
Barbara neophyte was talking to a throng of them, throwing out his arms
in passionate gesture, and his hearers shrieked their approval.

“This looks like a bad business,” Sergeant Cassara admitted to himself.
“So Fly-by-Night did not tell an untruth, eh? What object the rogue can
have in betraying his poor dupes is more than I can fathom. To-morrow
night they will attack, he said. I wonder if that is the truth, too?”

For several minutes he watched the camp, trying to estimate the number
of men there, and to see what they possessed in the way of weapons,
gathering information that would be of value to the _comandante_.
He got up from the ground to make his retreat then, and in so doing
glanced across the cañon to the slope beyond.

Señor Lopez and the four troopers were galloping toward the cañon.

Two ideas flashed through the sergeant’s brain--that Lopez and the
soldiers were riding unexpectedly into great danger, and that they had
left the two women and Rojerio Rocha alone at the ranch-house.

There was not time for him to reach his horse and ride to intercept
them, to warn them of their danger. To screech an alarm would avail
nothing--it was doubtful if the others would hear, and if the Indians
heard they would guess someone approached and prepare for the meeting.
It would be worse than useless for him to charge down the side of the
hill, if trouble came, and attempt to aid the others--such a course
would be suicide in the face of such a throng; and Sergeant Cassara
was a good enough soldier to realise his duty to his comrades and
superiors, to realise that it was for him to carry an alarm to mission
and presidio.

Helpless to warn or aid, he crouched behind the rocks at the top of the
hill and watched the drama unfold below him. Lopez and the troopers
reached the crest of the hill and dashed down toward the cañon proper.
Cassara saw an Indian sentinel flash a warning back to the others. A
few commands, and the dancing around the fires stopped, and gentiles
crept up the slope, dodging behind shrubs and rocks, weapons in their
hands.

With Lopez in the lead, the little cavalcade swept around the end
of the butte and into the cañon, into the midst of a swarm of
half-frenzied natives, and stopped with gentiles grasping at the
bridles. Cassara could hear Lopez shrieking something above the din,
saw the troopers draw sabres, rein back their horses, and try to clear
a space around them. The Indians crowded forward, menacing, screeching
their cries, more and more of them gathering about the five riders,
until only the heads of the mounted men could be seen above the horde.

Striking with their sabres, the troopers were trying to clear a space
in which to wheel their horses and retreat. An arrow flew from the side
of the hill--a trooper reeled in his saddle and fell over his horse’s
neck, and a chorus of shrieks arose at this first blood.

The troopers drew their pistols and, firing in the faces of the savages
nearest; several Indians fell; and then the riders were the centre of a
maelstrom of raging, fighting, bloodthirsty gentiles and neophytes who
fought with one another to pull the troopers from their horses, to lay
hands on the manager of the Fernandez rancho, a man many of them had
reason to hate.

“It is the beginning,” Sergeant Cassara heard himself muttering.

He closed his eyes for an instant, for it is one thing to be in the
centre of a savage combat and quite another to view one at close range
and yet have no part in it, and when he opened them again the Indians
had scattered, the five horses were running wild with gentiles trying
to capture them for the loot of silver-chased saddles they presented,
and on the floor of the cañon were five mutilated things that so short
a time before had been men.

Now the Indians were dancing about their fires again, this first small
victory having added to their frenzy, and their shrieks could be
heard a great distance. Cassara knew his duty now--to mount and ride,
to reach the ranch-house and aid in saving the women there, if he
could; to continue to the mission and spread the alarm, and have those
soldiers seeking Captain Fly-by-Night recalled from the hills before
they were cut off one by one and slaughtered.

He saw the Santa Barbara neophyte mount his mule again, and heard
him shrieking at the others, though he could not catch the words. He
started to slip away, back from the edge of the precipice to his horse,
and as he got upon his feet he saw another horseman galloping from the
ranch-house toward the cañon.

Loud curses came from the throat of Sergeant Cassara then, curses at
what he considered the man’s foolishness, for the rider was Rojerio
Rocha.

“The fool has left the women alone!” he gasped. “By all the saints, I’d
like to run him through for the worthless, senseless thing he is! Let
them alone in the ranch-house, he has, and rides toward danger like an
imbecile! Can’t he hear those yells, the fool? Can’t he tell something
is wrong?”

Crashing through the brush, stumbling over the rocks, Cassara rushed
toward his horse and vaulted into the saddle. His spurs raked the
beast’s sides cruelly; with a snort of pain and surprise the animal ran
wildly around the butte, sending showers of gravel down into the cañon.
The sergeant bent low and gripped the reins, lifting the horse in its
great jumps. On and on he rode, circling the knoll so as to approach
the house from the opposite side.

He came within view of it--and pulled up his mount sharply. He was too
late. Rojerio Rocha was in the centre of a horde of shrieking Indians.
They did not pull him from his horse, and they seemed to be making no
effort to attack him. But they had turned the animal’s head, and fully
two hundred of them were rushing it back toward the houses running
alongside, some mounted on ponies and some afoot. In an instant Cassara
had judged distance. The Indians were within fifty yards of the adobe
buildings, within one hundred yards of the house. And he was fully
three hundred yards away.

Sergeant Cassara hesitated a moment. He never knew fear, and was not
the sort of man to surrender another man and two women to a savage band
without making an effort to rescue them, even if it was certain he
would die in the attempt.

But he could not save these people, he knew, and would only lose his
own life. And if he died in the patio of the ranch-house at the hands
of frenzied gentiles who hated the uniform he wore, there would be none
to carry the alarm to the mission.

And now the throng had reached the house and rushed into the patio,
Rojerio Rocha still mounted on his horse. A bedlam of shrieks and
screams assailed the sergeant’s ears. He thought of the two women who
had ridden out in the carreta--the dignified _señora_, the dimpling
_señorita_--and cursed the man whose obstinacy had brought them there.

“Torture--and worse!” he exclaimed. “May the saints see that this
Rojerio Rocha suffers thrice for every bit of pain those women are
caused!”

And then he wheeled his horse, sent home the spurs, and dashed down the
road toward the distant mission.

       *       *       *       *       *

The _comandante_, back from his fruitless search of the hills for
Captain Fly-by-Night, saw the flying horse in the distance, caught the
glint of sun from the sergeant’s sword and called to his soldiers.
Frailes ran to the end of the adobe wall to watch the approaching
horseman.

Less than twenty neophytes remained at the mission now--all day they
had been sneaking away one at a time and hurrying to the camp on the
rancho--and of those who remained it was a question which were loyal.

“’Tis our famous sergeant from Santa Barbara!” the _comandante_ cried.
“He rides like that because the matter is urgent, you may be sure.”

The foam-flecked horse stopped at the end of the wall with forefeet in
the air as the sergeant swung himself backward in the saddle and sprang
to the ground. Even as his feet struck the turf his hand snapped to
his cap in salute. He was breathing heavily, but he was a soldier of
experience, and did not shout his news aloud like a frightened child.

“Something of moment to report, _comandante_,” he said.

The _comandante_ drew himself up and returned the salute--he was a
soldier of experience, too.

“Regarding hostiles?” he asked, while the frailes hung on his words.

“Regarding hostiles, _señor_.”

“Follow me to the guest house, sergeant; you can give me your report
there. Have one of the men attend to your horse. Is it of a military
nature only, or should the frailes hear?”

“They can hear it, _comandante_.”

They crossed the plaza, the lieutenant leading the way. There was no
haste in their manner. If there were disloyal neophytes about, they
would learn nothing from the way in which these soldiers conducted
themselves. Behind the lieutenant and sergeant walked four frailes,
their heads hanging, sensing what they were to hear. Another fray
remained in the plaza, and every neophyte there knew he was being
watched.

The lieutenant threw open the door of the guest house, and they
entered, and the door was closed again. The frailes stood against the
wall in a row awaiting the blow they expected. The _comandante_ threw
back his shoulders and took a deep breath, and snapped out his order:

“Report, sergeant!”

“Five hundred or more hostiles are camped on the Fernandez rancho. They
are dancing and putting on their paint. I followed when Señor Lopez and
Rojerio Rocha took the women there. Four troopers escorted them.”

“I am aware of that.”

“Two rancho overseers were found knifed. I made an investigation and
found the hostile camp. Lopez and the four soldiers rode into the cañon
where the camp is located and were slain----”

“All?”

“All,” said Cassara.

“The others?”

“Señor Rocha rode toward the cañon as I was starting to return to the
house to make an attempt to rescue the women. The hostiles seized him
and took him back to the house. Before I could cover the distance
they were in the patio--fully two hundred of them. I knew it would be
useless to attempt a rescue then, so rode to report.”

“And the women----”

“Were in the house, _comandante_!” Sergeant Cassara said.

The frailes groaned and bowed their heads in resignation. Further
explanation was not needed. They realised the situation fully; such
situations had been met by frailes since the sainted Serra first set
foot in California and began his great work of creating the mission
chain.

“There remains one thing to do, then--prepare for defence,” the
_comandante_ said. “We have twenty soldiers, eight frailes, about a
score of neophytes believed to be loyal, and half a dozen ranchers who
happen to be in the mission. Ensign Sanchez and his squad from Santa
Barbara should be here in the morning. The squad is a small one, but
every man is a man in such times. At least, we can put up a pretty
battle. If we can hold out until the Governor arrives”--a pause--“Hah!
Five or more to one, eh? How like you the odds, sergeant? Frailes, you
know your duties, I believe. If you feel like hesitating in the work of
preparing for carnage, remember those two women!”

But they were fighting priests, those men. The expressions that came
into their faces now were not such as come into the countenances of
cowards and weaklings. Their gowns remained, but beneath them the
priests had been transformed into soldiers in an instant of time. They
passed before the lieutenant and sergeant, walked to the door, opened
it and went out, each to do what he could in the plan for defence.

The _comandante_ and Sergeant Cassara faced each other for an instant,
like men who understand without resorting to words, then Sergeant
Cassara saluted and followed the frailes out of the guest house and
into the plaza.

And back of the fireplace, against the guest house wall in the old
tunnel, crouched Captain Fly-by-Night, who had heard all that had been
said; who remembered a proud, flushed face, a dimple, two snapping
black eyes, a voice so sweet and low that it struck to the heart like
the breath of a song--and who prayed now that the black night would
come quickly!



CHAPTER XIV

UNMASKED


It was to Anita’s old room in the house at the rancho that she was
carried after the sight of the two murdered overseers had caused her
to faint. Señora Vallejo, assisted by one of the troopers, followed,
and when Anita had been put on the bed the older woman crouched at the
foot of it, still weeping hysterically. The trooper hurried back to the
patio.

“Get some of the native women, Rojerio Rocha!” the _señora_ commanded
them, trying to control herself. “Tell them to bring cool water.”

She went to Anita’s side as the man left the room, opened the girl’s
dress at the throat and began chafing her hands, meanwhile looking
toward the door and patting the toe of one shoe on the floor because
Rojerio Rocha was so long about his task.

Señorita Anita moaned and opened her eyes, and Señora Vallejo, clasping
her in strong arms, they wept again together, still terrified by the
recollection of what they had seen, a gruesome sight for which they had
not been prepared.

Then the door was thrown open and Rojerio Rocha stood before them, his
sombrero in his hand.

“Ah! Señorita Anita is herself again?” he said. “That is well, indeed,
for there is not an Indian woman about the place, nor a male servant.
They have run away, it seems.”

“Run away?” the two women gasped in unison.

“Nor is that all. All the Indians employed at the rancho have deserted
the buildings and fields and are hurrying toward the cañon near by.
’Tis a well-ordered piece of property I have inherited, it appears.”

He laughed and swaggered across the room to a window, to look down into
the patio. The women were quick to sense some change in his manner, and
again fear gripped their hearts.

“Run away?” Señora Vallejo exclaimed again. “What does it mean? There
is danger--grave danger? Rojerio Rocha, let us return to the mission
immediately. Ah, if you only had listened and had not come!”

“Enough of that, _señora_!” he cried, whirling toward them.

“Have you forgotten your gentle blood, that you speak in such a tone to
a woman?” Anita demanded, sitting up on the bed.

“There are times when a woman must be brought to her senses,
_señorita_. Allow me to handle this affair in my own way. I am going
down into the patio now, and do you both remain in this room until I
return. At that time I may have better information to give.”

He went out without looking at them again, closed the door behind him,
and they heard the bolt shot into place. Anita sprang to her feet and
ran across the room to try the door before the beating of the man’s
steps had ceased to be heard. It was indeed fastened.

“I am beginning to hate him!” the girl exclaimed. “It will be
difficult, I fear, to do as my father wished. And I--I am beginning to
be afraid. The house is so quiet. Señora Vallejo, can you hear Indians
shrieking in the distance?”

“I have heard them for some time,” the _señora_ replied. “We have
walked into a trap, I fear.”

“Why do the men not start to return to the mission immediately? Señor
Lopez and the four soldiers surely can guard us well, and one of them
ride ahead for help if we need it.”

“It may be possible,” said the _señora_, “that the Indians have run
away merely because they fear punishment for the killing of their
overseers.” But she said it merely to allay the girl’s fears, not
because she believed it.

There was a clatter of hoofs at the end of the patio, and the two women
hurried across to the window in time to see Señor Lopez and the four
soldiers dash away. They turned to the right toward the cañon, and the
women could watch them no longer; and so they stood before the window
and looked down into the patio, awaiting the return, watching Rojerio
Rocha as he paced back and forth beside the fountain, now fumbling at
the hilt of his sword, now pulling at the pistol in his belt, always
with head bent and a scowl on his handsome face.

In time he stopped at the end of the patio and shaded his eyes with
his hands to look toward the cañon. A chorus of shrieks and cries came
from the distance. They heard Rojerio Rocha laugh, and then he grasped
the reins of his horse, jerked the animal around and vaulted into the
saddle to gallop away.

Clasped in each other’s arms, silent, fearful, the two women remained
standing before the window. An hour passed that seemed like an age. And
then they heard the cries and shrieks again, doubled now, seemingly
coming nearer--cries and shrieks that the older woman translated as
easily as if they had been spoken words. Even the girl seemed to
recognise a new note in the bedlam, for she looked up into the older
woman’s face wonderingly, questioningly, and she felt Señora Vallejo’s
arms tighten about her.

“What is it?” she asked.

“The blood cry--I know it well.”

“And it means----”

“It means that the fiends have had blood, that there has been murder
done.”

“Ah, yes! The overseers.”

“I did not mean the overseers,” Señora Vallejo said, turning her face
away and looking out of the window.

“You mean that Señor Lopez--the soldiers--Señor Rocha----”

“Some of them, perhaps all. We shall know soon.”

The girl moaned and hid her face against the older woman’s shoulder and
tried to shut out the cries by putting fingers in her ears. But she
could not shut them out, and in time ceased to try.

“They are approaching,” Señora Vallejo said.

“Coming here?”

“Here or else to the adobe buildings. And we have not a weapon in the
room, nor any man to protect us. The door is locked--we cannot escape
and attempt to hide.”

“Oh, why did he lock it?” the girl cried.

The end of the building shut off the view as they looked from the
window. But they knew the horde was approaching, and rapidly, and with
the blood shrieks were mingled other cries the meaning of which Señora
Vallejo could not understand at first.

“They are acclaiming someone,” she said, finally. “Some chief who has
performed a murderous assault, I suppose. May the saints curse the man
whose treason agitated them!”

Then she grasped the girl and drew back from the window quickly,
letting the draperies that hung there fall back into place. An Indian
had appeared at the end of the patio--a tall, young Indian streaked
with war paint and with a musket in his hand. They watched as he
glanced around the enclosure, then slipped like a snake past the
fountain to the door to listen there. Finally he whirled around and ran
to the end of the patio again, to wave his musket and shriek at the
others.

Then, like a wave breaking on a rocky beach, the horde poured into the
patio--dancing, shrieking, screeching--charging across the veranda,
splashing through the water of the fountain, tearing at the palms old
Señor Fernandez himself had planted and tended until they were grown.

And, in their midst, sitting his horse with shoulders squared, his
face devoid of all expression, was the man Señor Fernandez had said his
daughter was to marry.

“They have brought him here to kill him!” the girl moaned. “And, the
others----?”

“Dead, else ridden for help,” replied the _señora_. “If we had but a
poniard----”

The horse had stopped beside the fountain. A chief grasped the animal’s
mane and was shouting to the maniacs who shrieked around him. They
stopped their dancing and their cries died down. Half a dozen men
raised hands to take the rider from his horse and carry him toward
the door, half a dozen more led the animal from the patio, scores
ran toward the adobe buildings, and others gathered in groups in the
enclosure to hold animated conversation, now and then screeching their
enthusiasm and shaking muskets and bows above their heads.

Señora Vallejo drew the girl back from the curtained window, and they
stood at the foot of the bed, still clasped in each other’s arms,
looking toward the door. They heard steps in the corridor outside--the
steps of but one man, it seemed--and they feared a skulking gentile
reconnoitering, one who soon would send a shriek ringing through the
house to inform the others he had found women there.

Silence for an instant, then they heard the bolt withdrawn. Another
instant, and the door was thrown open.

“Rojerio Rocha!” Señora Vallejo exclaimed.

He closed the door behind him, bowed before them, and advanced a step
into the room.

“You have come to say that there is no hope?” the woman asked.

“I have come to say, first of all, _señora_, and you, _señorita_, that
there is absolutely no danger for either of you, if you are obedient.”

“No danger? What mean you, Rojerio Rocha? No danger with that mob of
howling savages in war paint, crowding the patio and overrunning the
house?”

“They are not overrunning the house, _señora_, pardon me. None are in
the house except chiefs and a few servants. Already they have the fires
going, and a roast of beef is being prepared. You shall have food soon.”

“Are you an imbecile in truth?” the _señora_ cried. “You trust such
wretches? Do you not know that, if they do not slay us at once, they
are but playing with us as a cat plays with a mouse before she kills
it? Where are your brains, Rojerio Rocha? Is there to be no attempt at
rescue? Give us at least a poniard, that we may protect ourselves or
take our own lives to save honour! Where is Señor Lopez? Where are the
troopers? Have they ridden for help?”

She stopped speaking, standing before him with her hands clutching at
her breasts--fear-stricken, desperate, but angry above all.

“Señor Lopez and the four troopers,” he replied, “rode down into the
cañon to make an investigation, disregarding my orders to the contrary.
They are dead.”

“Dead?” Anita cried.

“Dead, _señorita_.”

“But you----? Why have they let you live, Rojerio Rocha? They will
torture?”

“I already have informed you that no harm shall come to you if you are
obedient.”

“And, to be obedient----?”

“Is to remain in this room, _señorita_, and you, _señora_, until you
are told you may depart elsewhere. Food will be fetched you regularly;
you may have anything you wish. Be not afraid of the Indians in the
patio and surrounding the house. They are not a menace--they are here
for protection.”

“Protection?” sneered the _señora_.

“Your protection--and yours, _señorita_--and mine.”

“Yours?” the women cried.

“What mean you?” the _señora_ demanded, as an afterthought.

“That these Indians call me master. Do you understand? That I am their
commanding officer. That the time to drop the mask has come, _señora_,
and you may consider the mask dropped. To-night and to-morrow we
prepare; to-morrow night we take the mission and presidio. After that
the other things will follow--every rancho and village will be visited.”

“You--you----!” Anita gasped.

“You will get used to the idea, _señorita_. Within half a score of days
I shall be a king. You did not think to wed the ruler of the coast,
did you, _señorita_? Why did you think I am so anxious to come to the
rancho to-day? Because my armies had been gathering here, _señorita_,
and because it was my place here, instead of at the mission. And I
desire to get you here, with the _señora_, where you will be out
of harm’s way until after we have succeeded. As for Lopez and the
troopers--they walked into the trap, and we have five men the less to
fight to-morrow night.”

He laughed loudly and took another step toward them, and the women
recoiled.

“You realise--what you are saying?” the _señora_ gasped.

“Fully, _señora_.”

“You--Rojerio Rocha--with the blood of the Rochas and the Fernandez in
your veins--you turn renegade, lead hostile Indians, play at treason,
countenance murder and rapine? Fear has turned your brain! You could
not do such a thing!”

“It takes a man with good brain to do it, and travel on the Governor’s
pass at the same time,” he returned, laughing again. “Rest assured I
speak the truth, _señora_. It has taken much planning, but soon we see
the culmination.”

“But--this Captain Fly-by-Night----?”

The man’s face darkened.

“A meddling fool,” he said, “who shall be sent to eternity if ever I
cross blades with him again. A nothing, a novice--this man of whom you
speak! Captain Fly-by-Night, eh? The fools sent out alarms concerning
him, eh? They chase him and hunt him like a mad bull--while I am guest
at the mission, and smile, and send out my plans and orders under the
very noses of the frailes. I do not deny this man has had his uses. But
I command--not he!”

The first horror was over now; full realisation was coming to the
women. Señorita Anita stepped out to the middle of the room and
confronted him, and she showed no fear now. Her head was lifted
proudly, her breast heaved with emotion, outraged pride and anger
struggled in her face for expression.

“So it was all a farce?” she cried. “You and this Captain Fly-by-Night
were not such deadly enemies as report had it, eh? Partners in treason
you were, playing your nefarious game! And the duel down by the
creek--how came it he ran you through? Was that a part of the game,
too?”

“We fought because of an argument concerning Señorita Anita Fernandez,
I believe.”

“Traitors fell out, and you would say it was over a woman? Say, rather,
that you both sought leadership--that there was one general too many!
Say, rather, that even before the culmination of your plans you fought
regarding the division of the loot--myself being desired by both pretty
traitors!”

“Say what you please, _señorita_, so long as you let the fact remain
that this man of whom you speak has nothing in common with me. As for
yourself--you please me very much, and I shall claim you when this more
serious business is at an end.”

“Claim me--you? Renegade! Traitor! Take you for husband? Do you suppose
my father knew your true character when he made his request? He never
had seen you, Rojerio Rocha, but he supposed--because you had Fernandez
and Rocha blood in your veins--that you were a gentleman and true.
Marry you, Rojerio Rocha? Marry a man the Governor calls friend, and
who plans to stab his friend from behind?”

“Marry, or come to me without marriage--as you wish,” the man said.
“Your will against me will not be so strong, I think, when things are
at an end and I become master.”

“Rather would I wed this Fly-by-Night--this gambler and swindler
and thief and wronger of women--this man who made immodest boasts
concerning me. And before I’d do that, I’d take my own life, Rojerio
Rocha! Call in your savage friends and let them torture, and slay
me! Never can I hold up my head again, whether your conspiracy is
successful or no! That a man of my family and blood should do this
thing----! Where is the pride of the Fernandez now? This stain never
can be washed away!”

“A truce as to your foolish pride! Enough of heroics, _señorita_, and
you, _señora_! We’ll talk further of these matters at a later day. At
present remember that I am master here. You will remain in this room,
and food will be fetched. Every comfort you wish will be furnished. And
when things are settled again, I take you for wife, Señorita Anita,
whether you wish it or not. These Indians will not allow you to escape,
yet they will protect you. Had I left you at the mission, you might
have been injured by mistake during the fighting. Calm your fears and
make the best of things, and try not to change conditions you cannot
affect. There is no need for fear--already the gentiles look upon you
as their queen.”

“Their queen! I, a Fernandez, queen of savages, over a kingdom
purchased by treason and steeped in blood? Have I not shame enough with
which to contend? Go--go!”

She turned half from him, sobbing, hands held to face. Señora Vallejo
had collapsed at the foot of the bed. There was silence for the moment,
and then the man’s laugh rang out--raucous, sneering, malevolent.

“By the saints, you are beautiful when aroused!” he cried. “These
heroics will not outlast the day, I vow! If I took you in my arms,
perhaps----”

She heard his quick step, and turned to confront him. So they stood for
a breath, a foot apart and then the man laughed and raised his arms.

One of her hands darted forward and then, when she sprang back to avoid
him, she gripped the poniard he had worn at his belt. Her arm drove
it forward. Her head was half turned away as she felt it strike his
breast. She dropped the weapon and covered her face with hands again,
waiting for the crash that would tell her his body had fallen to the
floor and that she had slain a man.

But the crash came not, and in its stead there was a muttered
exclamation of surprise, and a chuckle of relief.

“Your blow was strong and sure, _señorita_,” he said. “Fortune favours
me in that the point struck on the buckle of my sword-belt. As for
the poniard--I intended leaving it with you, that you would feel more
secure. I always did fancy a woman of spirit. You will make a right
royal queen for such a warrior as myself.”

“Go--go!” she cried.

“Immediately, though I dislike to leave such good company; yet there is
work to be done and the time is short. Within a short time an Indian
will come with food, and if there is anything you lack for comfort, you
have but to command.”

He turned his back deliberately and walked to the door, and she could
not nerve herself to pick up the poniard and strike again. She felt
herself reeling and knew that reaction soon would be upon her. But she
bit her lip cruelly to force herself to gather her scattering senses,
and once more she addressed him.

“Send no Indian with food. I do not eat what traitors prepare, and
neither does my _duenna_. And when that door is opened again after you
are gone--no matter by whom--I plunge this dagger into my own heart,
Rojerio Rocha, and so pay in part for the stain you have put upon our
family. I swear that I’ll do this--and there will be no belt buckle to
turn aside the point!”

His face sobered for an instant, for there was no mistaking her
determination. He threw open the door and looked back toward her and
finally laughed again.

“_Adios, señorita_,” he called. “When hunger makes you forget what you
have just said, you may call to someone in the patio and they will
carry me word.”

He went out and closed the door. The girl heard the bolt shot into
place. One moan came from between her lips, and then she collapsed at
the foot of the bed beside Señora Vallejo.



CHAPTER XV

THE WAY IN


An hour after nightfall the well in the orchard at the mission gave
forth a man. Mud and dust were mingled on his clothes, the ends of
his moustache drooped, and there was a scraggy beard on his face. The
dainty caballero was gone, and in his place was a warrior of stern
visage and flashing eyes, who stood beside the well curb for a few
minutes listening and then lost no time in crossing the orchard and
climbing the adobe wall.

Once outside, his progress was rapid over the uneven ground. Now he
walked and now he ran, making his way to the crest of the slope behind
the mission buildings. He turned west and hurried on, making as little
noise as possible, stumbling over rocks and roots and small brush, for
there was no moon and a man could see scarcely two feet in front of his
face.

He came to a small dry watercourse and turned into it, running
continually now through the heavy sand, less liable to attract
attention, but panting from the exertion. Finally he stopped, listened
again and appeared to be uncertain of his surroundings. A soft whinny
came to his ears, and with a subdued gasp of thankfulness he ran on.

Beneath a ledge of rock in a natural cup in the earth his horse was
picketed. Working swiftly, the caballero put on saddle and bridle and
led the animal from beneath the ledge and down the watercourse. A few
minutes later he had mounted, and the horse was trotting slowly along
the crest of the hill.

The caballero did not under-estimate his danger. He knew the
_comandante_ might have sent troopers to scout in the surrounding
country in an endeavour to learn the intentions of the hostiles. Men
and women were driving in from the villages and every rancho was
sending its people to the protection of the mission, for the alarm
had gone out that afternoon, and he did not wish to be seen by any of
them. Moreover, scouting Indians might be met, and these the caballero
feared most of all, not alone because of an attack they might make, but
because they might give chase, drive him out of his course, delay him
when delay was the last thing he desired.

Yet he rode swiftly where he could, and trusted a great deal to his
horse, not following the principal highway, but breaking a new trail
over the hills, avoiding the cañon where the old Indian camp had been,
striving to reach the Fernandez rancho from the opposite side, where it
was less likely sentinels had been posted.

He had to guess at his location continually; had to stop now and
then to listen for sounds that would have meant danger; had to use
caution and make speed at the same time, a difficult thing under such
conditions.

In time he saw the reflection from fires ahead of him, and knew he was
not far from the cañon where the Indians had been camped.

He approached warily, riding slowly around the base of the butte as
Sergeant Cassara had done. Dismounting, he threw the reins over his
horse’s head and went forward alone, silently, foot by foot, fearing
a stumble over a stone might attract the attention of some Indian
sentinel and cause an alarm.

He reached the edge of the precipice and looked down. Scores of fires
were burning; scores of Indian warriors were dancing; the groups of
teepees told how the savages had gathered, gentile and neophyte, for
this attempt to drive white men from the coast country and reclaim the
territory for their own.

For several minutes the caballero watched the scene below, noting
especially where a group of chiefs had gathered before a large wigwam
as if for a conference. Then, fully determined, he slipped over the
edge of the precipice and started down to the floor of the cañon, a
perilous descent made more perilous by the fact that escape would be
difficult if his presence were discovered.

He reached the bottom, and for a time rested behind a clump of bushes,
where the light from the fires did not penetrate, breathing heavily
because of his exertion, listening to the chatter of a band of
neophytes near--neophytes who already quarrelled regarding the division
of certain goods in the mission storehouse.

Forward again, toward the wigwam, keeping out of the light from the
fires, going step by step and cautiously, now backing into the brush
when he came across a slumbering hostile, now daring a nearer approach
to the fires when the country made it necessary.

He reached a jumble of rocks directly behind the wigwam, and stopped to
rest again. He heard Indians shrieking in the distance, heard the sound
of galloping hoofs, and saw riding down the line of fires the man he
had warned the _comandante_ to watch.

“Then I was right, after all,” the caballero said, and gripped his
pistol for use in case of discovery.

The chiefs were standing now, awaiting the approach of their white
leader with evident courtesy, and one of them stepped forward and
grasped the reins of the horse as he dismounted. An Indian took the
horse away; the chiefs and their white leader sat down before the fire.

“You have satisfaction, Señor Rocha?” one of the chiefs asked.

“Things appear to be as I had wished,” was the reply. “We will attack
to-morrow night, as we have planned. The men have all arrived?”

“Except perhaps half a hundred who will be here by morning,” said a
chief. “A scout came in some time ago, with the report that they are
preparing for defence at the mission.”

“Hah! Small good it will do them, except to cause us more annoyance.”

“A soldier warned them, _señor_, it is said--a big soldier who belongs
not to the presidio here, but at Santa Barbara.”

“I know him; I expected as much. Do some of you remember this certain
soldier when we attack, and take account of him. There has been
nothing seen of the man who tricked you?”

“None have seen him, _señor_. Either he has ridden up El Camino Real to
spread the alarm, or else is hiding in the hills.”

“He is not to be slain, remember. I want that word passed around. That
man is mine when we take him prisoner. Small wonder it is that he did
not ruin our plans!”

“How were we to know, _señor_? Those at the mission treated him like a
pestilence, and he led our men to believe he was who he seemed. We did
not guess until he came here to the cañon and escaped when we would
have held him prisoner. Yet he is an outlaw now--both white men and red
seek him.”

“There is amusement to be found in that fact,” was the laughing reply.
“Remember that man is mine when he is taken. And remember, also, what I
said about a guard to be left behind here at the rancho. The women in
the ranch-house are to be kept in their room, and no one is to enter.
No harm is to be offered them. The younger one is to be my wife, you
understand, and the elder must remain with her to keep her from being
frightened.”

“It will be done, _señor_,” the chief replied, “though every man wants
to join in the attack on the mission.”

“Say to those left behind that I’ll see personally they receive their
share of any loot.”

“Very well, _señor_.”

“And now let us consider the plans for attack. It will be a task of
some hours, but we want no mistakes!”

The caballero waited to hear no more. Step by step he withdrew from the
wigwam and went back into the brush. One thought rang in his brain--no
harm had come to Señorita Anita Fernandez and her _duenna_; they merely
were being held prisoners.

It was more difficult getting back to the crest than it had been
descending, and there was as much need for caution. Through the
darkness the caballero fought his way upward, fearful of dislodging
pebbles and starting an avalanche that would betray him, grasping
carefully at projecting rocks and roots, straining his muscles while
the perspiration streamed from his face and neck, urged on by the
thought of the scant time he had for his purpose.

In time he reached the top, and for a moment was stretched exhausted on
the ground, gasping for breath. Then he arose and walked slowly toward
where he had left his horse, alert again, fearing discovery at every
step.

He mounted and rode slowly around the base of the butte, and then
across a pasture where there was no reflection from the fires in the
cañon. He could see the lights in the ranch-house, heard Indians
screeching around it, and before one of the long adobe buildings there
was a great fire where the hostiles were cooking.

The caballero estimated the task he had set himself to do, and strove
to keep from feeling downhearted; for it seemed almost an impossible
thing with a couple hundred hostiles scattered about the place. How
was he to reach the house, enter it, rescue two women and escape again?

He stopped his horse in an angle of fence that protected the yard of
the ranch-house from grazing herds, and fastened the animal there, then
went forward afoot, keeping in the shadow of the nearest adobe building.

He was within half a hundred yards of the Indians about the fire, but
they seemed to be giving all their attention to the preparation of
food, trusting sentinels posted on every road and trail to give warning
of approach.

He came to another horse tethered to the fence, a splendid animal
belonging to the rancho. It evidently was being used by some chief or
scout, for saddle and bridle were on it, and remembering that he would
need a second horse, he untied the beast, led it back to his own, and
fastened it again.

Then he went forward once more, this time swinging far out to one side
and reaching a clump of palms planted long ago by Señor Fernandez for a
windbreak. From there he could get a good view of the house. The patio
was filled with Indians; hostiles were on the front veranda; they slept
against the walls and roamed through the vegetable garden on the other
side of the building.

A room in the front of the house was illuminated, but none except
Indians were in it, and they seemed to be servants. To the rear was an
additional half-storey, and here was another room with a light in it;
and as the caballero watched the windows he saw a shadow cast on the
curtains.

The draperies were heavy and of brocaded stuff, yet the outlines of
the shadow could be discerned plainly. Here was no squaw or hostile
brave--here was a white woman dressed in the mode of the times, and the
shadow, passing and repassing before the window, told the caballero she
paced the room in an agony of fear.

Now he stretched himself on the ground and began worming his way
forward like an Indian, stopping every few feet to listen, keeping to
the shadows, ready to curl up and pretend to be asleep if any came
near, hoping he would be taken for a sleeping hostile. Fifty feet from
the side of the house he stopped, disheartened as he realised the
futility of the plan. No human being could reach the house and enter
without being seen, not with Indians scattered every few feet along the
walls and others continually running back and forth from the veranda to
the patio. He would have to resort to a trick.

But tricks were not easily planned under such conditions. No expedient
could he contrive; every plan was rejected as being worse than useless.

He heard a commotion behind him, and realised that the hostiles were
driving up the horses of the rancho in preparation for to-morrow
night’s raid. Two or three hundred head were in the drove now milling
near the fence before the house. Cries of relief came from the herders
as they sprang over the fence and hurried toward the house for wine
and food; and relief came to the caballero as he crouched in the
shadows, for now he believed the way was clear.

He slipped back to the clump of palms, made another circle, and so
gained the fence, to climb it and slip along it silently until he came
to bars directly before the ranch-house. Working swiftly to throw them
down, he then slipped back again and circled the drove until he was
behind the high-spirited, half-frightened animals.

He grasped pistol in one hand; zarape in the other. A moment of
silence, then a shot, a screech, the snort of a frightened steed, the
sudden crowding of those nearest him--then the drove was in frenzied
fear--rearing, kicking, plunging--striving to flee from this unknown
horror that had come behind them out of the night.

The leaders broke through the bars; the others followed. By scores they
stampeded into the yard, carrying all before them!

Shrieking hostiles fled from the raging beasts; a chorus of cries came
from the Indians scattered along the walls. Around the end of the
building and into the patio itself the animals fled, crashing into
the arches, stumbling across the fountain, tearing down vines and
trees--flying menaces of hoofs and teeth that scattered gentiles and
neophytes as a volley from troopers never would have done.

The caballero stopped beneath the palms to recharge his pistol, and
then he slipped quickly to the wall of the house and the nearest
window. The yard was clear save where mangled bodies of hostiles told
of the horses’ frenzy. Another moment--and the caballero was inside
the house, standing in a dark room directly under the window where the
shadow crossed and recrossed as a woman paced the floor.



CHAPTER XVI

THE WAY OUT


Hysterics were over, weeping at an end. Señora Vallejo now sat on the
end of the bed looking straight before her, and on her face was an
expression that told she was resigned to whatever Fate had in store for
her, that pride and breeding and blood had come to her rescue and she
would be craven no more.

She held the poniard their last visitor had left behind. None other had
come; neither food nor water had been offered them. And until Anita
Fernandez, her spirit broken, went to the window and called down to the
patio, none would come, they knew; and Señora Vallejo knew, also, that
Señorita Anita would die of starvation before she would give in and ask
mercy at the hands of the man who had wronged her.

The _señora_ watched as the girl paced back and forth, her hands
clenched at her sides, suffering from shame and crushed pride.

“Will you not rest, Anita?” she asked, presently.

“How can there be rest for me,” the girl demanded, “when a man of our
blood is doing this thing?”

“He is but a distant relative--very distant.”

“Were he a million times removed, yet he is of a branch of the
Fernandez family. Whether this revolt is successful or not, always will
it be said, in speaking of it, that a Fernandez was the instigator. It
is not to be endured!”

“Yet we must endure it!” the _señora_ replied.

“Would death wipe out the stain, I had not lived this long! Why did you
take the poniard from me, Señora Vallejo? Give it me again!”

“Death would not prevent the revolt, _señorita_, and you are young to
die.”

“And what remains but death? Would you have me take this man as
husband--this man with his treasonable soul and bloody hands? Would
you have me reign queen over a nation of ignorant savages, with a
throne, sitting on a daïs of white men’s bones? How he lured us here,
so we might not be hurt at the mission, so he could hold us until his
nefarious work is done! What dupes we have been! If he wins, what hope
is left? If he loses, how could I ever face the good frailes and the
soldiers and other decent men again? Nothing but death is left--and
even that will not wash away the stain!”

A sudden noise in the fireplace in the corner--not much of a noise, to
be sure, but enough to be heard in the silence that followed the girl’s
outburst. She stopped in the middle of the room, looking toward the
pile of wood there. Señora Vallejo turned with fear in her face, and
thus they remained, breathless, wondering if they were about to face a
new horror.

Again the noise--as if a dagger were being used to pry the blocks
of stone and adobe apart. Then a stone fell--and another--and then
there was silence for a moment, while the _señora_ and the girl gazed
spellbound. The elder woman ran to the girl’s side and clasped her in
her arms; her hand gripped the hilt of the poniard.

A third stone fell with a clatter. Again, silence. Then a head
appeared, slowly, inch by inch, first the crown of black hair now
covered with dust and soot, then a sooty brow, two piercing eyes, a
moustache that looked absolutely disreputable now, a well-formed mouth
that flashed open in a smile and showed two rows of even white teeth,
an aggressive chin!

The two women scarcely breathed; their eyes seemed to be bulging from
their sockets. Two hands gripped the edge of the fireplace, more blocks
of adobe bulged, and the man himself stumbled into the room, bowing
before them and throwing wide his arms as if to indicate the state of
his apparel.

“_Señorita! Señora!_” he said, and bowed again, once to each of them.

“’Tis Captain Fly-by-Night!” the _señora_ gasped.

“Such I am called, sweet lady. ’Tis unceremonious, I realise, to call
upon ladies without being announced, especially when they are in a
bed-chamber, and twice especially when a man enters by means of a
fireplace that is none too clean. My condition desolates me, _señora_
and _señorita_, but circumstances are such that I am unable to appear
before you properly shaved and dressed in clean clothing. I trust you
will overlook the matter this once? It never will happen again--if I
can prevent it.”

“You? Here?” The _señorita_ had found her voice now.

“I do not wonder you have difficulty in recognising me----”

“Troubles are not heavy enough upon us but we must endure your
presence?” she asked. “It is like Captain Fly-by-Night to affront women
when they are unprotected, to offer violence----”

“Have I offered violence, sweet _señorita_?” he asked pleasantly. “Have
I said or done what I should not?”

“Why are you here? Why do you crawl through the chimney like a thing of
evil? For some good purpose?”

“Possibly; you may be the best judge of that. My purpose is to
remove you from here--the two of you--and take you where there are
neither traitors nor hostile Indians--to the mission, to be precise.
I understand the close of another day will see siege and perhaps
bloodshed at this same San Diego de Alcalá, yet it would be better
for you to withstand the one and see the other than to remain at the
Fernandez rancho. For surely you realise your situation here. If this
revolt fails, as it will, you will be at the mercy of furious gentiles.
If it succeeds--well, if it succeeds, you will at least be at the mercy
of the traitor who caused it to succeed----”

The girl interrupted him again.

“You speak boldly of traitors, Captain Fly-by-Night. What about
yourself?”

“You consider me one?” he asked.

“Is not the fact well known, _señor_? Did not word come from the
Governor that your perfidy was discovered, and that you were to be
taken dead or alive? Have you not been fugitive these two days past?”

“Ah, yes! His Excellency the Governor has, intentionally or not, caused
me some annoyance by that same order. I must speak harshly to him when
next we meet. It is true also that I have been fugitive and forced to
use my poor wits to exist, with both soldiers and redskins trying to
run me down or run me through.”

“So your Indians have turned upon you? You are a double traitor,
perhaps. It was only recently I learned that this Rojerio Rocha,
who--Heaven help me!--is of a distant branch of my family, is a
renegade dealing with hostiles; and he as good as told me, here in
this very room, that you also were a renegade, that you fought for
leadership, since it was considered one white general was enough. I
believe he intimated, too, that you fought concerning myself, regarding
the question as to whose property I was to be after your plans had been
carried out. ’Tis like Captain Fly-by-Night to heap these additional
insults upon an unprotected girl!”

“This man you call Rojerio Rocha said all that, eh? Hah! How my blade
will sing when we meet!”

“He expressed a wish to stand up to you again, I believe. ’Twere a pity
you did not slay each other!”

“When next we meet my blade shall do more than pierce his shoulder,
_señorita_, I promise you.”

“Almost could I forgive your baseness and your cruel boasts concerning
myself, if you did that! Almost could I forgive your treason if you
took the life of the man who has put the stain of disloyalty upon our
name!”

“You speak freely of treason, _señorita_. I am no traitor.”

“You--no traitor?” She threw back her head and laughed loudly,
scornfully.

“May I suggest that you lower your voice?” he queried. “If you bring
hostiles into the room all my plans will have gone awry.”

“Your plans, _señor_?”

“To remove you and the _señora_ to the mission, _señorita_.”

She dropped the _señora’s_ arms from about her and took a step toward
him, and again her hands were clenched at her sides and her eyes blazed.

“Do you think I would stir a step from this place with you?” she
demanded. “Do you think I trust you? Do you imagine you have skill
enough, if I were willing, to get two women out of this house, put them
in a carreta and drive them to the mission--when the roads are watched,
when there are plenty of horses and ponies here for hostiles to use in
chase?”

“’Tis a difficult proposition, I admit, yet I think it can be solved
successfully.”

“Leave this house with you?” she stormed at him. “Go to the mission?
How could I look a fray in the face again? How could I even speak to
my good padre? How could I go to the presidio, where the soldiers were
wont to call me the regiment’s daughter? ‘Daughter of an accursed
family that spread murder and robbery throughout the coast country,’
they would say now. Here I am, Señor Fly-by-Night, in the home of
my father, with his good name besmirched by a traitor, and here I
remain, hoping death will come quickly, even before I know whether this
treasonable plot succeeds.”

“The task will be more difficult than I had imagined,” quoth the
caballero.

“Go with you? Trust you?” she went on. “To what purpose? You would
steal me from this Rojerio Rocha, eh? A pretty pair of rogues!”

Now he walked swiftly to her side and looked down into her blazing
eyes, and when he spoke it was in a voice she never had heard before.

“_Señorita_,” he said, “I swear to you by all the saints, by my dead
mother’s honour, by whatever you will, that I mean you no harm, and
that my sole object is to rescue you from this place and take you to
the mission, there to hand you over to your padre. I have come here
to-night at much risk, since both white and red men seek me. I have
used subterfuge and device to reach you safely. And you must allow the
rescue!”

Señora Vallejo would have spoken, but he silenced her with a wave of
his hand and looked at the girl again.

“And I say to you I am no traitor, _señorita_,” he went on. “Never
have I raised my hand against His Excellency the Governor, never have
I conspired with Indians. In time, things may be explained; for the
present I ask you to believe me.”

“Yet you are Captain Fly-by-Night--gambler, swindler, wronger of
women!”

“Which has nothing to do with this present rescue.”

“Save this,” she added, quickly, “that Señorita Anita Fernandez does
not trust herself with Captain Fly-by-Night, no matter what the
circumstances.”

The caballero sighed and turned on one heel to walk back to the
fireplace, there to stand for a moment in thought.

“It is, in a word, a difficult proposition,” he confessed. “Here I am
in this house after having difficulties, trying to be a hero and rescue
a damsel in distress, also her _duenna_, and the damsel refuses to be
rescued.”

“Then depart as you came!” the _señorita_ said.

“The damsel,” he went on, scratching his head and not even looking
at her, “does not fully appreciate the condition of things. She does
not realise in other words, what is for her own good in this matter.
The _duenna_, not having spoken, naturally leaves things to the
caballero----”

“I remain here, Captain Fly-by-Night,” Señora Vallejo interrupted. “And
do you show what small spark of manhood you may have left by quitting
these women’s quarters, where you are an uninvited guest.”

“Excellent! Always insist on the proprieties, even with half a thousand
red wretches within call ready to commit every crime known to man!” the
caballero replied. He looked up suddenly, and the women were frightened
at the expression that now came into his face. “You, _señora_, and
you, _señorita_,” he went on, “say you know my reputation as Captain
Fly-by-Night. Suppose I say to you, then, that I am a desperate man,
that we are done with pleasantries, and that you must do as I say or
expect violence? You understand me, do you not? I am done with playing.
Now you must obey!”

His voice was stern as he bent toward them and volleyed the words. His
eyes seemed to flash in rage, and with two strides he had reached the
head of the bed, and tore from it a scarf Señorita Anita had worn, and
turned to approach the girl.

His movements were so swift that there was no time for the woman to
act. He grasped the girl around the waist, and with the scarf he
stifled her scream of fright in her throat.

“Not a word from you, either, _señora_!” he commanded; and began
winding the scarf around the girl’s head, so that she could make no
sound. He picked her up, then, and carried her to the bed and put her
upon it, and in a moment had torn the bed covering to strips and tied
the girl’s hands behind her back and fastened her feet together. Two
frightened eyes looked up at him, a low moan came from her, but that
was all.

Señora Vallejo was crouched by the fireplace, half stunned with fear,
clutching at the poniard. He whirled upon her and she opened her mouth
to scream; but he reached her side in time to clap a hand over her lips
and choke the scream back into her throat. Once she struck at him with
the poniard; and he laughed lightly as he grasped her wrist, took the
weapon from her, and placed it in his belt beside his own.

“Listen, _señora_!” he said. “You will do as I say in everything,
without making the least sound, for, by all the saints, if you as much
as utter a gurgle I’ll slit your throat like I would a rabbit’s. You
understand me, _señora_? I am master now. Let fear paralyse your vocal
cords if you would save your life!”

He hurried back to the bed and picked up the girl, then strode to the
fireplace again.

“In you go, _señora_!” he ordered. “’Tis but a drop of six feet, and
though there is dust and soot it will not harm you. Drop straight into
the darkness, and when you are at the bottom stand still. And not a
gasp, else your blood will mingle with the soot!”

“I--I can’t!” the _señora_ gasped.

“Then will I be saved trouble by slitting your throat and leaving you
here! Down, _señora_!”

Trying hard to stifle her sobs of fear, the bulky _señora_ placed
her feet in the hole and slowly lowered herself until her head was
on a level with the floor. There stopped, with eyes bulging, until
the caballero made a motion with the poniard. And then she let go and
dropped, to fall with a thump at the bottom of the chimney in a shower
of soot.

The caballero listened a moment, until he was sure nobody on the floor
had been attracted by the sound, and then he lowered the girl down the
chimney, and followed to stand beside the _señora_ in the darkness.

“The window!” he whispered. “Allow me to say, _señora_, that we are
going through the window to the yard, then across the yard to the
fence, where I have horses waiting. I advise you to move silently and
listen for my orders, and obey them, for the least slip will mean
discovery, and that will mean a quick journey for you to a land where
there are neither hostiles nor neophytes--let us hope! The window,
_señora_!”

“I--I cannot!”

“Then you will be found here on the floor with a slit throat! I am not
a man to be trifled with, I assure you! And as for saying that you
cannot, a person can do many impossible things when death is behind
them and gaining steadily. The window, _señora_!”

The caballero looked out first to see that the coast was clear. There
were no Indians on that side of the house now. The majority of them
were in pursuit of the fleeing horses, following the stampede, and
others were in the patio discussing what had caused the animals to
become suddenly insane with fear when it was apparent to all sensible
persons that there was nothing of which to be afraid.

He stepped back and motioned to the _señora_, and she began the task
of getting through the window and to the ground below, finally falling
with a grunt to the sward. In an instant the caballero stood beside
her, with the _señorita_ in his arms.

The _señora_ was guided by whispers now, but they were accompanied
by such direful hisses that she continued to tremble with fear. Each
instant she expected to feel steel pierce her back, thinking the
caballero but awaited an excuse to put her out of the way, and so carry
off the _señorita_.

They reached the clump of palms and rested there for a moment while the
caballero listened to the sounds that came from the black night about
them. Then they went forward again, slowly, careful to make no noise.

Now they had reached the fence, and because of the caballero’s
whispered threats the _señora_ managed to climb it. They came to where
the horses were tethered, and there the caballero commanded silence
while he listened again, fearing someone might have found the horses
and was waiting to see who would claim them.

“That steed will be yours, _señora_,” he said, pointing it out.

“I cannot ride,” she moaned.

“Then here is where you acquire that accomplishment, _señora_, else
here is where you die. It desolates me that there is not a lady’s
saddle on the mount, but it was impossible to provide one. However, the
night is dark----”

“Ride a man’s saddle? Never!” the _señora_ gasped.

“Then I am quit of one trouble, and the horse will not be needed, since
I mean to carry the _señorita_ on mine.”

“Ah, _señor_, for the love of the saints----”

“Mount, _señora_! Up, as I aid you! We cannot remain here until dawn!”

In imagination she saw him reach toward his belt, and fear gave her
strength. Señora Vallejo got into the man’s saddle, and bent forward to
grasp the horse’s mane, feeling as much fear for the animal as for the
man.

“Do not strangle him, _señora_,” the caballero suggested lightly, and
sprang into his own saddle, with Señorita Anita before him.

The girl had ceased moaning some time before, but the caballero did
not remove the scarf. Though he could not see because of the darkness,
he sensed that her eyes were flashing angrily and that yet she did not
trust him fully, did not believe he was making this rescue in good
faith.

He urged his horse forward, and bent over to catch the rein of Señora
Vallejo’s animal, and so moved away from the fence, guiding his own
mount with his knees, holding the girl and leading the steed that the
_señora_ clutched violently by the mane, expecting every moment to be
hurled to the ground.

They made a great circle, getting a butte between themselves and the
rancho, and then the caballero urged the animals into a trot. No fear
of death could stay Señora Vallejo’s tongue then. Two shrieks came from
her throat in quick succession so like Indian wails that the caballero
thanked his saints nobody would be attracted by them. But he felt
called upon to stop the horses and make a statement.

“Another chirp like that, _señora_, and your body is found here in the
pasture at daybreak,” he warned. “Clutch the horn of the saddle and
leave the animal his hair. Bounce, if you will, but do not scream.”

And he started the horses again, and the _señora_ bounced, and though
she screamed no more, yet she breathed ladylike imprecations upon the
caballero and all horses, no matter of what breed. Faster and faster
he urged the steeds, until the _señora_ was in a panic of fear, had
given up all hope and expected death momentarily beneath the horse’s
hoofs--but clung on, nevertheless.

Now the caballero stopped and listened, and then began unwrapping the
scarf from the _señorita’s_ head. She gave a gasp as it fell away, a
sob, another moan.

“_Señorita!_” the caballero said, and his voice was soft again.

“_Señorita_, will you not speak to me and say that you forgive? There
was no other way, believe me, for you were so determined. You did not
trust me, and time was short and the danger great. It was to save you.”

“From one shame for another?” she asked.

“Not for all the world would I wrong you, offer you harm, hurt your
feelings!” he said. “You do not understand, _señorita_. Back there at
the rancho there was naught but danger for you, no matter what the
outcome of this revolt. It is better you are at the mission with decent
people, and there I am taking you now. It were better to die there,
_señorita_, with your _duenna_, and go to death unsullied, than to live
and be at the rancho when this revolt is over.”

“Unsullied!” she cried. “How can that ever be now, since Rojerio Rocha
has done this thing?”

“I would not dwell on that, _señorita_, at the present time. The night
is passing, and we must hurry on to the mission, and we can make none
too good time considering the _señora’s_ horsewomanship.” She was sure
there was the sound of mirth in his voice. “I ask you only to trust me
for the time being, and to do one other thing--when the fighting begins
at the mission, repair to the guest house with your _duenna_ and remain
there, despite any orders to the contrary. Do this, and I swear you’ll
never meet death at the hands of hostiles.”

“How can you promise that, when you dare not approach the mission or
presidio yourself?” she asked.

“Trust me, and ask no questions.”

“I cannot forget you are Captain Fly-by-Night. It is almost an insult
to be rescued by such a man.”

She felt his hands grip her for an instant, then the pressure of them
relax, and to her ears came a whisper so low that even Señora Vallejo
could not hear.

“_Señorita!_ Since first I saw you I have longed to hold you in my
arms as I am doing now. Since you taunted me down by the creek I have
loved you. You are mine, though you think it not. And do not now speak
of insults, else will I crush your red lips with mine! What I have
been, or who, or what or who I am now--still I love you as a strong man
loves, with my whole heart--and for you I would gladly die if it would
save you pain.”

He started the horses again, since she did not answer. Neither did she
struggle to get from his arms, as he had expected she would do. For
half a mile they rode in silence, carefully, making their way over the
hills toward the mission, avoiding all roads and trails. And then,
suddenly, two arms slipped around his neck to pull down his head, and a
voice breathed into his ear:

“Prove your words, Captain Fly-by-Night. I am motherless, fatherless,
and the man who was to have been my husband has cast shame upon my
family. There seems just now no future for me among reputable persons.
Who am I to taunt you with your past and reputation--I, daughter of a
family of traitors?”

“Do not speak so, _señorita_!” he said.

“I do speak so! Perhaps you are more the man than I have thought. May I
put you to the test?”

“Gladly will I stand it!” he said.

“Then prove at least that you will help remove this stain on our family
name. Prove that you are not partners with the man who put it there.
Prove that, though outcast at present, and pursued by white men and
red, you are a loyal man. Do one thing for me, Captain Fly-by-Night,
and I will try to think better of you, and I will go on to the mission
freely and remain in the guest house looking to you for help, as you
have suggested. I can promise nothing more, but, if this much will
content you for the time being----”

“Name what it is you would have me do, _señorita_!” he said.

“A thing that perhaps you will not dislike. Kill me this Rojerio
Rocha!”



CHAPTER XVII

“PERSPIRATION, SEÑORITA!”


As she spoke he had imagined a score of things she would ask him to do,
but never this. He realised by her words and the tone of her low voice
how the girl had been struck to the heart by the thought of a member
of her family--no matter of how distant a branch--turning traitor and
renegade.

There had been a quality of vehemence in her sentence that had struck
him like a blow. Unconsciously he started, and unconsciously his heels
swung back and his spurs dug into the flanks of his horse. The movement
was mechanical; he had seemed to try to dodge her sentence as he would
have touched his steed to dodge the blow of a mounted swordsman.

With a snort of fright at this unexpected and unmerited severity, the
horse sprang to one side, almost unseating its rider and hurling him
and the girl to the ground. The animal Señora Vallejo rode reared
suddenly, and the _señora_ gave a shrill screech and tried to clasp
her steed’s neck. But the unexpected application of spurs to his mount
saved the caballero’s life, perhaps, for even as the horse sprang a
musket spoke and a bullet whistled past uncomfortably close, and an
Indian sentinel’s shrieking challenge came out of the night, to be
caught up by another far to one side, and by still another, until it
seemed that they had ridden into a hostile camp.

The caballero clasped the _señorita_ closer and galloped madly after
the horse the _señora_ rode, for the woman was shrieking in her fright
and the caballero was afraid she would be thrown and injured. Another
musket spoke from a thicket as they flew past, and for an instant the
caballero loosened his grip of the reins and swayed forward in the
saddle, but almost immediately he sat straight again and peered ahead,
trying to locate the other horse.

The footing was secure here where the ground was comparatively level,
and soon he rode beside the other steed and reached out to grasp the
reins. Gradually he forced both animals to a canter, finally to a walk.

“It desolates me to think you have sustained fright, _señorita_, and
you, _señora_,” he said. “Luckily the horses sensed our enemies and
galloped of their own account, else one or more of us might be slain,
wounded or prisoner now. That was the last outpost of the hostiles, I
imagine; nevertheless it will repay us to move with caution the rest of
the distance. ’Tis but another mile to the mission, and soon we will be
in the midst of their sentinels, if they have any out. One force is as
dangerous for me as the other.”

“I doubt whether I can ride the other mile,” said the _señora_,
gaspingly. “Do you ride on and save the _señorita_; if the hostiles
catch me I shall die as becomes a woman of my blood.”

“You’ll die immediately with a slit throat if you do not ride on!” the
caballero announced, angrily; and the _señora_ moaned and rode on; only
the _señorita_ detected the note of amusement in the caballero’s voice.

They had come out upon the highway now, knowing that no hostile would
be there so close to the mission, and the caballero slowed the horses
to a walk again, letting the eager _señora_ ride a few feet ahead.

“Some minutes ago you asked me a question, _señorita_,” he said.
“Rather, say that you issued a command. So you would have me slay this
Rojerio Rocha?”

“He should pay the penalty for the infamy he has cast on our name,
_señor_. And you would like to slay him anyway; you have said so
yourself.”

“I am making a point of that, _señorita_--am I slaying him for you or
for myself?”

“I care not, as long as he is slain. I would you could do it before
the attack begins! Yet you do not seem eager to aid in saving the
good names of Fernandez and Rocha, it appears. Is it true, then, that
you both are leaders of the Indians, but jealous of each other’s
leadership?”

“I have told you I am no traitor, _señorita_.”

“Casting a stain upon my name is not enough cause to have you kill a
man, then?”

“The man has done enough to merit death, no doubt.”

“If that is not enough, there is more--a personal insult.”

“Personal insult, _señorita_?” he asked.

“He--he told me that after the attack had succeeded he would make
me his wife. When I told him I would sooner die than wed such an
infamous traitor he said--said that I would come to him, marriage or no
marriage----”

“By the saints! He said that?” the caballero cried. “Is there no drop
of gentle blood in his veins?”

“My blood, _señor_,” she reminded him.

“No more your blood than the water of that creek, _señorita_. Do not
protest! I know not what strain flows in his arteries, but it is
none like flows in yours. The man dies, _señorita_. I regret but one
thing--that I cannot slay him twice, once for you and once for myself.
He has a heavy score to be settled, this man!

“But here we must stop. It is but two hundred yards to the mission, and
I dare not approach nearer. Moreover, I have things to do before dawn.
May God and the saints guard you, _señorita_, and you, _señora_, during
the trials that are to come. I regret that you’ll have to dismount,
else ride with the _señora_----”

“Gladly will I walk the remainder of the way,” Señora Vallejo said, “if
you will aid me to the ground. I doubt, however, whether I can use my
legs for several minutes.”

“Walk slowly up the roadway,” the caballero instructed. “You will meet
guards, no doubt. If they challenge, you must answer immediately and
inform them of your identity. I will try to attract their attention
when you have gone a little way, and let them know you are approaching.”

He helped the _señora_ to the ground, then returned to his horse and
reached up for the _señorita_.

“You have not untied my feet and arms,” she reminded him.

“_Dios!_ That I should have forgotten that! Can you ever forgive me,
sweet lady? So many things have happened lately that I am beginning
to have a poor memory.... There! Take a step or two to restore
circulation. Hold to my arm----”

“Your arm is wet!” she exclaimed.

“Perspiration, _señorita_. There--I think you can walk now. Remember
what I have said--remain in the guest house when the attack begins, no
matter what others may wish you to do. As for this man who insulted
you--he shall pay the price. _Adios, señorita!_”

He carried her hand to his lips and kissed it, though she made futile
effort at withdrawal.

“_Adios_, Captain Fly-by-Night,” she said; and disappeared in the
darkness.

The caballero waited until the sound of the women’s footsteps had died
away, then he mounted his horse again, took out his pistol, and fired
into the air. A quick challenge came from the distance.

“Attention, _señores_!” he called. “Do not fire at the roadway--Señora
Vallejo and Señorita Fernandez come!”

An exclamation of incredulity answered him; he heard Anita calling in
her own voice; then he slapped the horse Señora Vallejo had ridden and
sent it back up the road, and swung his own mount toward the hill.

“‘_Señor_, your arm is wet,’” he mimicked. “By the saints, that was
rare indeed! ‘Perspiration, _señorita_,’ said I. Hah! Excellent--if it
was not so inconvenient--and painful!”

       *       *       *       *       *

In the guest house a few minutes later Señorita Anita Fernandez
happened to glance down at her hand. She gasped in surprise and
understanding when she saw blood on it.



CHAPTER XVIII

FOES IN WAITING


A grey dawn came that morning to San Diego de Alcalá, for the heavy fog
hung like a pall over the valley, rolling in great billows against the
hills. The mission bells rang, and into the church trooped frailes,
soldiers, ranch owners, loyal neophytes, none appearing more devout
than those same soldiers whose license and cruelty had done much
to make the Indians dissatisfied and undo the work of the frailes.
Collectively they may have been a boisterous, fighting, drinking,
gambling lot--but individually they were properly religious.

The _comandante_ had taken charge and done everything possible in
preparing the defence. It had come to a question of deciding between
presidio and mission, for there were not men enough to defend both.
It was a question, too, which the hostiles would attack first--the
presidio offered arms and ammunition, food and wine; the mission
offered more loot. Did the savages have greater hatred for the soldiers
or the “long gowns”?--that was the question the _comandante_ would have
liked to have had answered.

Sergeant Cassara, pacing the plaza after service, pulled at his long
moustache and waited for his officer to appear. There were some things
Cassara had not fathomed. With his own eyes he had seen the savages
take Rojerio Rocha to the house at the rancho, and he knew that the
women had been there. And now, so he had been told, both women were
back at the mission, and unharmed. This was something new in Indian
warfare.

The _comandante_ came from the church, two of the older frailes with
him, and went toward the padres’ quarters, Cassara falling in behind.
Since there was no other officer here, Cassara, by virtue of his long
experience, had been appointed a temporary second in command.

Inside the building, with the door closed and a man on guard outside
to prevent interruption, the frailes sat down at a long table, the
_comandante_ at the head of it, Sergeant Cassara at the foot. There
was silence for a moment, and then the lieutenant lifted his head and
looked down the length of the table, ignoring the frailes and gazing
straight into Cassara’s eyes when he spoke.

“Ensign Sanchez of Santa Barbara is due this morning with twenty men,
unless he has met with disaster on the highway. I understand from the
courier who arrived late last night that Sanchez has picked up some
good fighters along the way, especially at Reina de Los Angeles, where
the old pirate, Gonzales, now a godly man, and some of his cronies
joined the standard.”

“Give me a score of men like this Gonzales and we sweep the hostiles
into the sea!” Cassara exclaimed.

The lieutenant rebuked him with a glance, and the sergeant, his face
flushing, turned to look through the window.

“Not a man among us but is worth a dozen Indians,” the _comandante_
went on. “Yet we are not more than a hundred if Sanchez arrives in
time. We can expect no help from San Luis Rey de Francia--on the other
hand, Sanchez may see fit to leave a part of his force there. Two
hundred good men are coming south with the Governor, who has taken care
of things in the north and now hopes to stamp out the rebellion here.
But they cannot arrive for perhaps two days more. _Señores_, we must
hold out until then! And my scouts report that the savages number at
least a thousand now, and are well supplied with arms and ammunition.”

No man made answer; there seemed no answer to make. The _comandante_
had stated the gist of the matter, and it was for him to make any
decisions he wished.

“Is it to be the presidio or the mission?” a fray asked, after a time
of silence.

“The mission,” the _comandante_ said. “I have decided that. I am having
arms and ammunition moved here from the presidio.”

“I thank you, _señor_,” the fray returned. “We would rather die on the
steps of the church, if we are to die in this manner.”

“Now who prates of dying?” Cassara burst out. “Is this a council of war
or a funeral? If we are going into this fight already whipped, then I
mount my horse and trot up to San Luis Rey de Francia in search of men
of spirit!”

“Peace, sergeant!” the _comandante_ cried. “There will be fighting
enough! I believe all our plans are made, _señores_. It desolates
me to think we have not sufficient force to make a sally and carry
the fighting to the enemy, but we dare not risk it. The renegade who
commands the hostiles probably has prepared for that.”

“And what renegade commands?” Cassara desired to know. “Name him, for
the love of the saints, so I’ll know him when we meet face to face!”

“The matter appears to be undecided,” returned one of the frailes.
“We had thought this Captain Fly-by-Night was the renegade, and think
so yet, knowing his character, but it seems the Indians have turned
against him----”

“Or have pretended to turn against him and are playing a deep trick,”
Cassara interrupted. “What has become of the scoundrel?”

“’Twas he fetched the women back to the mission unharmed,” the
_comandante_ replied.

“_Dios!_ ’Twas he? Will someone explain this business?”

“Señora Vallejo appears to be on the verge of hysterics and will say
little,” a fray responded, “except that this Fly-by-Night invaded a
room occupied by the women at the rancho, and forced them to accompany
him. He conducted them here in safety. His object in so doing is not
known fully.”

“Hah! And this Rojerio Rocha--what became of him?”

“I can learn nothing from the women regarding Señor Rocha, except that
Señorita Anita gasped out he is still at the rancho, and that it is too
horrible to mention. The hostiles are holding him for torture, perhaps.
There is deadly enmity between Señor Rocha and Captain Fly-by-Night.”

“Hah! Is there, by any chance, a possibility that this Señor Rocha
himself is a renegade and leads the hostiles?” Sergeant Cassara
demanded.

“_Señor!_” the fray cried. “Rojerio Rocha is of a distant branch of the
Fernandez family, heir to the old _señor_, and is to wed the Señorita
Anita. Moreover, I happen to know that he is a personal friend to the
Governor.”

“The trunk of a tree cannot always control its branches,” the sergeant
observed, “and most certainly cannot prevent any foul bird from
building nest in them. That is a deep saying--eh, fray? Ponder over it
while you are waiting for the fighting to begin.”

“I think your suspicion is an injustice,” the fray returned. “It is
more likely this Fly-by-Night has held Rojerio Rocha for torture, since
he knows Señor Rocha is expected to wed our Anita, and he himself has
made boasts that he would win her.”

“At any rate, this Captain Fly-by-Night is a clever rogue,” the
sergeant declared. “Hah! I have a score or two to settle with that fine
caballero when next we meet!”

“And I!” the _comandante_ added.

“May the saints give him to my blade!... Is there more to be done
before the imps of Hades descend upon us?”

A fray reported.

“I have had all water casks filled, as was ordered, for human use and
to fight fire. There is not a break on the four sides of the plaza
except at the end of the adobe wall; and there we left room for Ensign
Sanchez and his men to enter.”

Cheers came to them now from the plaza, and the sergeant rushed to a
window, then whirled toward the others with a glad cry.

“Sanchez has come!” he shouted. “And that dear pirate of a Gonzales is
with him. Now bring on your gentiles and disloyal neophytes and your
renegades and your Captain Fly-by-Night! Hah! My ensign has come!”

He ran to the door, hurled it open, and sprang out into the plaza, his
sword clattering at his heels.

“Hah! I am myself again!” he roared. “Ensign I salute you! Comrades, it
is a treat to see you again! How like you El Camino Real in haste, eh?
Gonzales, good pirate, come to my arms!”

They laughed as they surged forward and around him, slapping him on his
broad shoulders, grasping at his hands, crying jests and strange oaths
at their happiness in seeing him again.

“Look around you, comrades!” the sergeant invited. “What you see
you like, take it! While our ensign greets the _comandante_ here--a
fine fellow, by the way, but not quite up to our Santa Barbara
standard--I’ll show you what has been done in the way of defence. There
is a corner from where a man can command the slope----”

Gonzales interrupted him with a slap on the back so hearty that it took
away the sergeant’s breath.

“A truce to your blabbing!” cried the former pirate. “Thrice have I
opened jaws to ask a question, and always you spoke again before I
could have a word. Where is this precious Captain Fly-by-Night? If
already you have slain him, then--by the saints!--I’ll have at you
myself! Hah! Where is the rogue?”

“Ah, wouldst see Captain Fly-by-Night?” the sergeant asked. “A rogue,
is he? Now when did he cross your path, good pirate? Is he your friend
or foe?”

“Is he? There’ll be one sergeant less for the hostiles to combat if you
dare intimate the man to be friend of mine! A pretty scoundrel! Where
crossed he my path? Hah! Like a whirlwind he descended upon the pueblo
of Reina de Los Angeles one night, as you know very well, Cassara mine!
‘Fray Felipe of San Fernando says I am an honest man, and that you are
one,’ he states. ‘I would sleep until an hour before dawn,’ he states.
‘You will care for my animal and give me a couch and food?’ he states.”

“I dare say he got what he requested,” Cassara put in, trying to choke
back a laugh.

“Did he? The rogue! Did I not sit up all night, musket in hand, pistol
at belt, sword ready, to guard the wretch? Did I not have my Indian
prowling around the house alert for sneaks? Did I not rub down the
scoundrel’s horse? And in the morning did I not ride with him a short
distance on his way and give him my blessing? Hah! ‘These are turbulent
times,’ I suggested to him. ‘So I have understood,’ he states.
‘Perhaps you think me a man I am not,’ he states. To my face, the
rogue! And, in my wisdom, I wink one eye and slap him on the back and
send him on his way. _Dios!_”

“We all make mistakes,” Cassara observed.

“He warned me of another traveller, and I play with this same other
man and lose good gold, seeking to delay him. I do delay him--to find
I have hindered the Governor’s good messenger and given aid to the
renegade. And you ask me why I want to see him? Hah! Where is he to be
found?”

“Answer me that, good pirate, and I bless you! My blade waits for him!”

“After I am through,” Gonzales suggested.

“I have first claim,” Cassara declared.

“The man is mine, I say. If he dares show his face, all must stand
aside and let me at him!”

“Hah! Stand aside for you, pirate?” Cassara cried. “Captain
Fly-by-Night comes to me, and I would have all men know it!”

“Now, by all the good saints, this passes a jest! I say the man comes
to my blade. Have I not the better right?”

“There are three of us,” Cassara said. “The _comandante_ here at San
Diego de Alcalá has a score to settle with the rogue. Yet I think I
shall spit him----”

“By what right? Wherein has he put shame upon you?” demanded Gonzales.

“Hah! As to that----”

“Speak, Sergeant Cassara, and let these men judge. Why have you the
better right?”

Cassara’s face grew purple suddenly, for there came to him a vision
of the barracks-room at the presidio, himself and two soldiers bound
hand and foot and fastened to stools, a grinning gentile watching
them--while Captain Fly-by-Night slept in an adjoining room.

“Let the men judge!” Gonzales was shouting.

Cassara choked in embarrassment. Tell the outrage this Caballero had
put upon him--tell it to the grinning troopers? A courageous man was
the Santa Barbara sergeant, but not courageous enough for that.

“I fight you for him!” he roared, and started to draw blade. Nor was
Gonzales a bit backward. In an instant their swords had crossed, in
another they would have been at it. But Ensign Sanchez, who had come
from the guest house with the _comandante_, interposed his own blade
and separated them.

“A truce to such quarreling!” he ordered. “This Fly-by-Night is my
quarry, _señores_! He is to be left to me, I would have all men know.
Did he not make a dunce of me at Santa Barbara? ‘Can you conceive a
reason why a gentleman might not want his name shouted for all men to
hear?’ he asked. ‘You know the state of the times, I take it.’ Hah! Did
I not wine and dine him? He comes to my blade!”

“Now, by the saints! If this rogue appears at any of the four points of
the compass, he meets a _señor_ awaiting him!” Cassara said. “’Tis to
be a matter of luck, then.”

A fray entered the conversation.

“Were Rojerio Rocha with us, no doubt he would want to claim this
Fly-by-Night,” he said.

“Rojerio Rocha had his chance at him,” Cassara replied.

“And did not you?” Ensign Sanchez demanded. “Did he not stand up to you
at Santa Barbara?”

“Devil and Hades!” the sergeant cried. “I shall go mad! Hah! May the
imps of evil, even, pity the scoundrel when I meet him! The more I
think of it--Juan and Claudio, eh? Hah! Play cards for a mule? ‘Not
that pack of cards, _señor_,’ the wretch says. ‘This is to be a game
of chance, not of skill,’ he says. Fury! ‘Do you keep up your fencing
practice,’ he says. _I shall go mad!_”

Cassara swept his naked blade in a great circle at arm’s length, and
the others sprang out of his way roaring with laughter. Across the
plaza stamped the irate man, stopping before the store house to lift a
water jug and drink deeply.

And then a neophyte stopped before the _comandante_ and ensign and
bowed respectfully.

“_Señores_,” he begged, “allow me to say it is an easy matter to settle
this quarrel. I am Pedro, servant at the guest house, and I swear by
the saints I am a loyal neophyte and ready to die for the frailes and
the _señores_. Moreover, I have been servant to the Señorita Anita
since she has abided at the mission----”

“But the quarrel, man! How settle it?” laughed the _comandante_.

“This Captain Fly-by-Night boasted concerning the _señorita_, thus
insulting her; did he not? Do you four _señores_ fight bravely against
the others--and let me kill this Fly-by-Night!”

A roar of laughter answered him. He bowed again, but did not turn away,
and they saw he was sincere in his request.

“This Fly-by-Night appears to be loved with an enduring affection,”
Ensign Sanchez said, sarcastically. “I suppose we must leave the matter
to chance, and each of us pray the rogue falls to his blade.”



CHAPTER XIX

CASSARA SEES A GHOST


Men spent the afternoon in boisterous revelry, for all preparations to
withstand a siege had been made and they awaited the attack, but they
grew silent toward evening, pondering over what might occur.

Their nervousness was apparent. Scarcely one inside the plaza but
had participated in outbreaks before, and scarcely one that had not
sustained wounds. But other revolts had come unexpectedly, as rain from
a clear sky, whereas this was anticipated, of much moment, and naught
could be done to prevent it.

Dusk came, and a heavy fog rolled up the valley from the distant bay
to grow heavier as the hours passed, and shut out moon and stars. Not
a light was to be seen in any of the buildings at the mission; not a
torch burned on the plaza.

Soldiers were at their stations, whispering to one another, striding
back and forth nervously, fumbling at their weapons. Frailes prayed in
the church. Trusted neophytes carried water and cold food, and stood by
to handle ammunition when the time came.

Scouts had been sent out--a small number, since the defenders of the
mission were limited, but experienced men, both white and red, who
could be depended upon. A mile from the plaza, on every side, they
watched for the approach of the foe, ready to sound the warning and
then make their way in to aid in the defence.

Hour after hour passed without event. The _comandante_ and Ensign
Sanchez paced the plaza praying for action, knowing their men could not
endure the suspense much longer without giving way to their feelings
and violating orders as to silence.

In the guest house, Señora Vallejo was upon her knees like a pious
woman, and Señorita Anita stood beside a window looking out at the dark
night, biting her lower lip, clenching her tiny hands, and thinking of
the shame upon the name of Fernandez.

She half regretted that she had not come out openly and told her padre
the truth concerning Rojerio Rocha; yet she had not, hoping against
hope that something would occur to prevent his perfidy becoming known.
Perhaps his Indians would turn upon him and everyone think he had died
a loyal man. Perhaps Captain Fly-by-Night would perform the service he
had promised, and let the soul of Rojerio Rocha from his body before he
actually had engaged in shedding the blood of good and loyal men.

Sergeant Cassara and Gonzales appeared to be the only ones at the
mission not bothered by the waiting. They sat against the adobe wall in
a corner, speaking in whispers of other uprisings, jesting at times,
Gonzales recalling the days of his piracy and Cassara making envious
comments.

Midnight came, but no alarm had been given. Not a sound broke the
monotonous stillness of the night, yet the quiet was in itself
ominous. Frequently the _comandante_ and ensign stopped their pacing
to look toward the north, in the direction of San Luis Rey de Francia,
wondering what was transpiring there, half fearing to see the glare
of flames through the fog, conjecturing as to the whereabouts of the
Governor and his force.

Then a shot--far distant, toward the south! In an instant every
whispering voice was stilled, every man was on his feet holding weapons
ready. Just the one shot, and then the ominous quiet again! Had some
scout fired at a shadow, at some animal moving over the ground? Or, had
he gone down to a quick death as the shot was fired, and so could give
no further warning?

Ten minutes passed--then another shot came, this time some distance to
the right of the first. It was answered by shrieks from half a hundred
throats, shrieks there could be no mistaking. A score of shots sounded
now, and the cries increased in volume.

At the mission there was many a sigh of relief--inaction and
uncertainty were at an end. Sergeant Cassara got up from the ground,
took a hitch at his belt, and turned toward his friend.

“Well, old pirate, let us get to our gruesome business,” he said. “A
plague on these hostiles who have no better sense than to assail men of
our standing and courage! Many I shall kill presently who would have
lived many years had they not listened to a renegade. You take the
left side, Señor Gonzales? Very good!”

Now the scouts were running in, closely pursued, and scattering shots
came from three directions. Yet the scouts stopped long enough to give
the first surprise.

Around the mission at nightfall great heaps of dry grass and wood had
been piled, and now the men running to the protection of wall and
buildings stopped on their way to set these piles afire. Instantly the
flames sprang up, illuminating the ground for a great distance; and in
the glare half-naked forms were revealed.

Gonzales fired the first shot, and a hostile fell. A trooper cheered. A
bedlam of sound answered him. And then the roar of musketry broke out,
and the battle was on.

Charging redskins scattered the dangerous fires as they advanced,
scattered them so that the flames licked at the dry grass and spread
in a great circle around the mission, giving the defenders greater
advantage than they had enjoyed before. The shrieking horde seemed to
be advancing from every side, oblivious of their losses. Volleys of
musket slugs were rained against the wall and against the buildings.
Clouds of arrows fell.

But the defenders, settled now to their work, spent no time in
cheering, but shot methodically and with good aim, cutting down the
number of their foes, crying now and then for ammunition, urging on
comrades in quiet tones.

A hundred of the thousand hostiles met death in the first half-hour of
the attack because of the fires that had been set. But the nine hundred
others rushed on, urged by their chiefs, charging to the very walls,
hurled back again and again, but always returning to the charge. Now
the ground was dotted with dead and wounded men.

Inside the plaza frailes were busy at surgery, for the defenders had
not escaped unscathed. Firebrands had been thrown and extinguished. The
first impulsive, enthusiastic attack had failed.

The hostiles drew away, and the fires died out, and the darkness
descended again.

Now those inside the mission strained eyes to see and ears to hear,
trying to find shadows in the darkness, firing now and then where it
was believed an enemy lurked. Every foot of the high adobe wall was
watched by keen eyes. The quick rustling of a bush in the wind was the
signal for half a score of shots. And the only answer was silence--a
menacing silence charged with promise of death.

An hour passed, during which soldiers felt their nerves at the
breaking-point. Then a chorus of shrieks assailed their ears, coming
from a corner of the plaza. A sudden rush, a fusillade that took toll
of the defenders, and then a hand-to-hand conflict where muskets were
dropped and knives and pistols used!

“Hah! Come on, hostiles!” the voice of Sergeant Cassara roared. “Have
at you, followers of a dog renegade! Charge, will you? Cross blades
with a sergeant of Santa Barbara, eh? There, hound! There, cur! There,
dog! Come on--more! Let us make a quick end of it.”

“At them!” Gonzales was bellowing in his great voice. “Make them
walk the plank, the curs! String them up at the yardarm! No quarter,
wretches! Hah! Try to split open an honest pirate with a blade, will
you? There, misguided imbecile!”

Dead and wounded Indians fell inside the wall. Determined men ran from
other parts of the plaza at the _comandante’s_ command. Foot by foot
they cleared the top of the wall, then caught up muskets and poured
a hot volley into the struggling, frenzied mass below. Side by side,
swords and poniards in their hands, they held their places while the
loyal neophytes behind them reloaded muskets and pistols.

The hostiles were beaten back; they attacked at another point. Like
waves breaking against a rocky shore they surged against wall and
buildings and rolled away again, leaving their dead and wounded behind.

They concentrated an attack against the storehouse, trying to make a
breach in the wall, and failed. They battered at the windows of the
church in vain. Always strong adobe confronted them, every foot guarded
by determined men who shot cheerfully and well and answered not at all
to the frenzied cries, save by discharge of firearms.

Again a retreat and an hour of quiet, and then another rush at the
corner of the adobe wall, a rush more determined than the others, and
that almost won at the outset. Other parts of the plaza were left
unprotected as the entire strength of the garrison gathered to repulse
the charge. Storehouse and church were abandoned for a time, except for
a few men in each place to give alarm if a counter-attack was started.

The hostiles were driven back, but the defenders had sustained heavy
losses. There were dead white men just inside the wall; three wounded
troopers groaned as they staggered across the plaza to receive medical
aid; and Sergeant Cassara howled maledictions upon renegades and
hostiles as Gonzales bandaged a bad cut in the Santa Barbara soldier’s
shoulder.

“Save me my blood, good pirate!” he cried. “Stop its flow, for the love
of the saints, before I lose so much that I am weakened! If I were to
meet this Fly-by-Night and had not the strength to stand up before
him----”

“Hah! I’ll attend to the renegade in your name and my own, comrade!”
Gonzales replied. “You can lose twice this blood and still fight. ’Tis
a clean cut and soon will heal--just a mere prick in the skin. You have
been living too soft; in good condition you scarcely would notice a
slash like this. In my pirate days----”

“Spare me your pirate days!” Cassara cried. “A mere prick in the skin,
eh? Give me my blade!”

“It were best for you to rest here beside the wall for the time being,
comrade, and get back your strength.”

“My strength? A mere prick in the skin? Hah! My blade, good pirate!”

A chorus of shrieks came from the wall; the hostiles were attacking
again. Gonzales turned and ran to his place when he heard the
_comandante_ screeching orders. Sergeant Cassara staggered to his feet,
stood for a time with legs spread wide apart until he could walk
without reeling, then picked up blade and returned to the combat.

Gonzales, firing and using blade by turns, realised that the sergeant
stood beside him again.

“Hah! At them, brave soldier!” he cried. “To your right, man! That cur
almost had you! Easy--easy! You still are weak.”

“Prick in the skin!” Cassara hissed, and sent his blade home again.

Another rush, and for a time the defenders of the wall settled down
to desperate work. The hostiles seemed to be getting the better of
it. Half a score of times they broke over the wall, some to fall
inside dead and wounded, others to fall back before the infuriated
counter-assault of the defenders.

Cassara, cutting and slashing savagely, felt blood flowing from his
wound again and realised that he was growing weak. A film seemed to be
before his eyes, his blows came not so frequent and swift.

“Hah! ’Ware on your left!” he heard Gonzales shout.

As through a screen the sergeant saw a giant hostile swinging at him
with a bludgeon. Cassara drew back and swung his sword, but not in time
to cut down his enemy. He felt a terrific blow on the side of his head,
his senses reeled, and he fell backward off the wall with the vengeful
shriek of Gonzales ringing in his ears as the pirate ran the hostile
through.

For several minutes he remained huddled on the ground while the fight
raged about him, and then he began crawling to one side, following the
wall, trying to get where he would not hinder the others, and remain
away until he recovered strength.

Propped against the wall of the storehouse, he watched the conflict
on the other side of the plaza, too weak to stand, his head swimming,
scarcely able to lift an arm. Shadow-shapes came and went before him;
the shrieks seemed far away.

“By the saints--!” he gasped. “A club--a club to render me senseless!
Carlos Cassara, who has stood up to good fighters, to be beaten down by
a common club in the hands of a gentile cur! A mere club! Hah! I shall
go mad!”

He tried to wipe the film from in front of his eyes and peer at the
wall. It seemed to him that the shrieks had redoubled, and he sensed
that his comrades were giving way before the onslaught of the enemy. He
tried to cry encouraging words, but merely made a rattling noise in his
throat.

“Mere--club--” he gasped.

Someone rushed before him. A firebrand fell in the plaza--and by its
momentary glare Cassara saw a man standing with a pistol a score of
feet away.

“Wha--what--?” he began mumbling. And then, suddenly, realisation came
to him. This man before him was Captain Fly-by-Night, the renegade. He
was here, in the middle of the plaza! What did it mean? Had the attack
on the wall been a subterfuge? Had hostiles invaded the church and now
were attacking the defenders in the rear?

Fear for his comrades clutched at the heart of Sergeant Carlos Cassara.
He gathered his remaining strength and tried to stagger to his feet,
but could not. He still was sick because of the blow he had received,
and from loss of blood. Huddled beside the wall of the storehouse, he
drew air deep into his lungs, and expelled it in a series of shouts
that rang out above the din of battle.

“Ho! Hah! Behind you, comrades! They are behind you! Captain
Fly-by-Night is in the plaza!”

The glare of the firebrand died out, and, as it died, Cassara saw
Fly-by-Night turn and face him for an instant, glance back at the wall,
then flee toward the church and enter it.

“Behind you!” Cassara shouted again. “Fly-by-Night behind you!”

Now some of the men had run from the wall and were gathering around
him, Gonzales at their head.

“He was--there! He ran into--the church!” Cassara went on.

Roaring a challenge, Gonzales rushed across the plaza with half a
dozen men at his heels. Another firebrand struck inside, and its glare
revealed every corner. Gonzales rushed into the church, weapons held
ready. The men with him searched every nook and corner, but none was
there except the two men left on guard. A soldier ran for the firebrand
and carried it into the church contrary to orders; but its light
revealed no renegade crouching and ready for sword play or pistol shot.

Gonzales and his men hurried back to the plaza and stood over Sergeant
Cassara again.

“The blow on your head turned your wit,” the pirate said. “You saw
Fly-by-Night, eh?”

“I swear by the saints he stood before me, watching you on the wall.”

“Take no oath by the saints until your head is better, sergeant mine,
else you perjure yourself. There is no sight of the man in plaza or
chapel--and the men guarding the church saw no one.”

“I tell you he was here! _Dios!_ Cannot a man believe his own eyes?”

“’Twas your imagination. The blow caused you to see this Fly-by-Night
along with stars and meteors.”

“I saw him----”

“Then you saw a ghost!” Gonzales declared. “Rest you easy, sergeant
mine, and frighten us no more with old women’s tales of hostiles at our
back.”

“I tell you----”

“Tell it to the ghost if he comes again!” Gonzales snorted; and hurried
back to the wall, where the hostiles, beaten off again, were retreating
to prepare for another assault.

Sergeant Cassara propped himself up against the wall of the storehouse
and gazed into the darkness, half expecting the sound of a stealthy
step near him. The weakness came again, and his head sank forward. He
struggled in vain to keep his eyes open, keep his senses alert. And
just before he lapsed into unconsciousness he gripped the hilt of his
sword and moaned into the night:

“I shall go mad! By the saints! I shall go mad!”



CHAPTER XX

ANOTHER VISITOR


The dawn!

Some trooper started the cheer when the first faint red streak began
to show through the fog, and the others took it up, until all the
defenders at the mission were hailing the day except the frailes busy
with their prayers.

The dawn meant that no more could the hostiles approach under cover
of darkness, make unexpected attacks in certain quarters, or slip up
unnoticed until within a few feet of the walls. Now they could be
observed easily on every side, and an open charge could be met by a
concentrated defence.

As the day broadened and the fog began to lift a constant pattering
of musket slugs beat against the walls, and flaming arrows were still
being discharged. Neophytes carried food and water and wine to the men
on the wall and at the windows of the buildings, and they ate and drank
as they fought, trying to pick off enemies when head or leg or arm
showed.

Every boulder had a hostile behind it, every pile of debris, and they
were intrenched behind the wall of the orchard, from which comparative
security they showered bullets against those of the mission.

Dead and wounded gentiles and traitorous neophytes dotted the ground
on every side of the plaza. Eight defenders were stretched in a row
near the wall, victims of the conspiracy. More than a score wounded
had been quartered in the church, where the frailes attended to their
injuries as well as they could, for the church was where the last stand
would be made if necessary.

A nervous, anxious _comandante_ paced the plaza, scarcely speaking to
his men. Ensign Sanchez, from a position near the end of the wall, had
glass to eye, searching El Camino Real for a cloud of dust that would
tell of the approach of the Governor and his force, fearing as he
looked that it would not be possible for his excellency to arrive until
the end of the day.

A great deal depended on what had transpired at San Luis Rey de
Francia. There was a chance the Governor would have to stop and give
aid there and could not continue to San Diego de Alcalá. It was certain
the hostiles knew the Governor was coming, and would attempt to gain
possession of the mission before his arrival.

Sergeant Cassara still sat against the wall of the storehouse, and
Gonzales, down on his knees beside him, was holding a wine cup while
the sergeant drank. Gonzales had suffered a minor wound, but made
little of it.

“Together, we have not lost enough blood to dye a lady’s handkerchief,”
he said. “’Twas the knock on the head made you faint, sergeant mine.”

“Carlos Cassara to be knocked on the head with a club!” the sergeant
groaned. “I shall go mad!”

“Another man would have had his skull crushed by the blow. How feel you
now?”

“Excellent well, good pirate, except my neck be so stiff I cannot turn
my head.”

“Hah! Dost want to look behind you to pick out a way to run?”

“Now, by all the saints----”

“’Twas but a jest, Carlos, my friend. You are able to fight again?”

“Let the dogs but attack and I’ll take my place beside you,” the
sergeant boasted.

“You have seen no more ghosts?”

“’Twas no ghost! ’Twas Captain Fly-by-Night himself, may the imps of
evil seize upon him! Laugh, and you like! I saw him, by the light of
the firebrand, standing in the plaza, pistol in hand.”

“We’ll say no more of it,” Gonzales proposed. “’Tis no thing to cause
argument between friends. What is a ghost? Hah!”

The door of the guest house was thrown open, and the giant Pedro
stalked out, followed by Señorita Anita Fernandez and Señora Vallejo.
It was plain to be seen both women had been weeping. The _comandante_
hurried toward them, cap in hand, and spoke with them for a few
moments, then conducted them along the wall toward the church.

“Displaying the women folk,” Cassara whispered to his friend. “’Twill
make the men fight better. What a girl that is!”

“’Twere hard to die as this Rojerio Rocha died, knowing death robbed
him of such treasure,” Gonzales replied.

“He is dead, then?”

“It is assumed so. Why would hostiles hold him prisoner when they are
running wild to kill other good men?”

“Why didn’t they slay him at the rancho with Señor Lopez and the
others? Answer me that!” said Cassara. “How does it happen this
Fly-by-Night got the women from the ranch-house and fetched them here?
Answer me that! Why does this girl gasp and say it is too horrible,
yet give no details? Reply to me concerning that! Hah! When this row
is at an end there’ll be explanations enough to occupy a year of his
excellency’s time!”

“The women are going into the church to pray,” Gonzales announced, for
lack of anything better to say. “’Tis well. As for me, I do my praying
as I fight. It is an excellent custom. I noticed a fray as dawn broke
doing the same thing. Load and fire--then on his knees--arise--load
and fire again. He kept it up for half an hour.”

“The bells of the mission rang as usual this morning, I noticed,”
Gonzales said.

“And did you hear the fiends yell and double their volleys at the same
time? Hah! Drown the sound of mission bells by shrieks and shouts?
They’ll ring down the centuries, my good pirate--ring either in fact
or fancy as long as two chunks of adobe cling together! Hah! I grow
poetical, pirate! Is it a sign of approaching death?”

“It is a sign of approaching lunacy,” Gonzales answered, and stood to
his feet to watch Señorita Anita and her _duenna_ as they came from the
church and crossed the plaza to the guest house again, heads bowed and
hands clasped, a fray behind them, the _comandante_ hovering near.

The crest of the hill behind the mission flamed red suddenly as a
volley was fired. The cries of the besiegers were redoubled. The
_comandante_ and the ensign called commands. Gonzales picked up musket
and hurried to the wall, and Sergeant Cassara got slowly upon his feet,
balanced himself dazedly against the storehouse wall for a moment, then
clutched his own musket and staggered weakly after his friend.

From all sides came the rain of bullets, while over the crest of the
hill poured charging hostiles in a mad rush toward the plaza. Others
remained at the crest and covered the charge with volleys, keeping the
top of the wall clear until those concerned in the assault were within
striking distance.

Then the top of the wall burst into flame, and the charge hesitated
for an instant, recoiled, gathered courage and continued. Once more
hostiles and defenders fought hand-to-hand with pistols and swords and
knives.

More dead were stretched beside the wall inside the plaza, more dotted
the ground outside. Additional wounded shrieked or groaned in pain.
Half a dozen savages invaded the plaza, to be caught in a corner as in
a trap and exterminated. The assault failed, as had the previous ones,
but it had proved costly to the defenders.

Now there was quiet for an hour, except for the continual shots fired
by hostiles under cover. Frailes worked frantically with the wounded.
More ammunition was distributed. Ensign Sanchez swept El Camino Real
with his glass, and turned away disconsolate. The _comandante_ walked
from post to post, cheering his men, his face contradicting the words
he spoke.

“A few more charges like that,” Gonzales was saying, “and there’ll not
be enough of us left to make a defence. No gentile had brains enough
to cover an advance from the crest like that. Hah! If ever I meet this
renegade who leads them----”

“The mere thought of standing before him makes me strong again,”
Cassara replied. “I pray both of us will have pistols empty and be
forced to use naked steel.”

A fusillade interrupted him, a renewal of war cries smote the ears
of those in the plaza. Men raised weapons to fire, expecting another
charge. And over the crest of the hill fled a man who waved a white
cloth above his head and plunged down toward the mission.

“A white man! Don’t fire! A white man!” _comandante_ and ensign were
shouting.

Now the crest was alive with Indians, who fired repeatedly at the
fleeing figure. Some gave chase until bullets from the wall cut them
down. On and on raced the fugitive toward the promised shelter of the
mission.

“’Tis this Rojerio Rocha!” Cassara shouted.



CHAPTER XXI

IN THE GUEST HOUSE


“Rojerio Rocha! He has escaped them!” Others took up the cry, and
cheers from those along the wall greeted the flying man, cheers of
welcome and encouragement. The Indians on the crest were still firing
at him. He dodged from side to side as he ran. Now he dropped the
white cloth he had carried, glued elbows to his sides, and ran on. He
stumbled, fell, regained his feet.

“Help him!” the _comandante_ cried. “Aid him inside, you men!”

The fugitive crashed against the wall. A musket was let down, and he
grasped it, and they pulled him up and lifted him over--to see him
collapse on the ground breathless, his eyes rolling, clutching at the
breast of his cloak as if it pained him to try to breathe.

“He has been hit!” a fray cried; but the man shook his head. They gave
him wine, and he drank, and gasped until he got his breath.

“The fiends!” he cursed. “They were holding me--expected to torture
me--with Señorita Fernandez--said her father--had been cruel. I
managed--to get free of bonds. They will--attack again!”

Even as he spoke the second attack came. Again a throng of savages
rushed down the slope while others poured a volley at the wall. The
hostiles in the orchard joined in the charge.

They reached the corner of the wall, piled against it, made their way
upward in the face of musket flashes and blades. Shrieking chiefs urged
them on. One by one the defenders crashed to the ground inside. The
ranks closed up. All other parts of the square were abandoned as men
rushed to the threatened corner. The man who had escaped the hostiles
was forgotten.

He got upon his feet and stood against the wall for a moment, clutching
at his breast as if it still pained him to breathe, and then he
tottered toward the storehouse. A jug of water was on the step, and he
lifted it and drank, then staggered inside.

One soldier had remained there to guard, and was standing at the wide
window, musket ready, prepared to fire and give an alarm if the Indians
attempted to gain entrance there. He whirled around as the other man
stumbled against a counter.

“Thank the saints you escaped!” he cried. “It was a close call, Señor
Rocha.”

“A musket,” the other demanded. “Weapon and ammunition! Am I to stand
by idly while others fight?”

The soldier got a musket from the corner and handed it over, and turned
for powder and ball. The man behind him swung the heavy weapon over his
head and crashed it down on the soldier’s skull, and the storehouse
guard was stretched on the floor.

It did not seem to pain him to breathe now, for he was done with
acting. He hurried across to the window and worked frantically to
unfasten the bars. For an instant he leaned out and waved a cloth.

A group of hostiles beside the orchard wall had been waiting for
that signal. Now they ran wildly across the open space--a score of
them--some falling on the way, men from other groups of hostiles
joining them. Shrieking their battle-cries, they poured through the
window the renegade had opened and plunged into the plaza.

At the same time hostiles swarmed over the end of the wall, enough of
them to make a stand. Beset front and rear, the defenders stood back to
back and fought courageously. More men fell. Loyal neophytes had been
slain as they loaded weapons; and there was no time for the remaining
defenders to load now, nothing to do except use muskets as clubs, hurl
pistols in savage faces, and wield swords and poniards.

“The women--the church!” the _comandante_ shrieked to a fray.

It was the first admission that conditions were serious. The fray bowed
his head and joined another, and they hurried across the plaza to the
guest house, where Señora Vallejo was praying in a corner and Señorita
Anita standing at a window watching the combat, a knife clutched in one
hand.

“Quick--the church--it is the last stand!” one of the frailes cried.

The _señora_ got up and hurried to the door, grasping at a fray’s arm,
tears streaming down her cheeks.

“_Señorita_,” the fray called.

“I remain here,” she said.

“The _comandante_ has said you must go to the church.”

“I remain here!”

In her brain was beating the sentence the caballero had spoken--that
she was to remain in the guest house, no matter what transpired. She
was not certain the words had not been a boast. She could not imagine
how a rescue could be made, though she had reason to know he was clever
at rescue work, unless he led the hostiles and intended to save her
after the mission had been taken. But she remembered, too, how he had
declared he was no traitor, and believed in her heart he had spoken
truth.

“This is madness!” one of the frailes cried.

“Go! I remain here!” she answered.

“We must make haste. I’ll return for you, _señorita_!”

The frailes hurried outside with the _señora_ and ran across to the
church. The defenders were retreating across the plaza now, fighting
every foot of the way, backing sullenly but hopelessly and attempting
to carry their wounded with them.

Looking out of the window, Señorita Anita Fernandez knew in her heart
that the frailes would never be able to return across the plaza for
her--that hostiles would be in front of the guest house before they had
placed Señora Vallejo inside the church.

She drew back from the window, still clutching the poniard. She could
not feel much faith in the caballero; saw naught but death before her.
Death self-inflicted if hostiles invaded the guest house and started
to take her prisoner! Death if the caballero appeared with mask thrown
aside and as leader of the hostiles after all! Death if he did not
appear and the traitorous Rojerio Rocha did, and attempted to claim her
as bride! Death--naught but death!

She rushed to the window again and saw that the defenders had been
driven back to the door of the church. The plaza was filled with
shrieking hostiles. Muskets crashed, steel rang. Dead men and wounded
men were scattered over the ground. The storehouse was being looted
even now.

Again she crept back near the fireplace in the wall, and her lips moved
in prayer. The door was thrown open, and she made the poniard ready,
for it was an Indian who stood framed in it for an instant. Then she
gave a glad cry--the Indian was Pedro, the faithful servant.

But the cry died in her throat as she remembered that there was a
possibility that even Pedro had turned hostile now that men of his race
were victors. She gazed wide-eyed as he half closed the door and faced
her.

“I have come for you, _señorita_,” he said. “I noticed you did not go
to the church with the _señora_ and others. But we cannot cross the
plaza now, for it is full of hostiles. We must remain here--and I can
die beside you, _señorita_!”

He turned to close the door and lift the heavy bar across it, but it
was hurled wide open against him, sending him recoiling against the
wall, and another entered.

“You?” Señorita Anita gasped. “You--Rojerio Rocha!”

He made no answer, scarcely looked at her. Whirling upon the neophyte
he pointed toward the open door.

“Out!” he commanded.

For an instant the Indian seemed to flinch with fear; then courage
returned to him, for he thought the man before him misunderstood.

“I am no hostile,” he said proudly. “I came to help protect the
Señorita Anita. Ask her if I have offered harm.”

“Out!” came the command again.

“I am loyal. The hostiles will slay me!”

“Go out, I say!”

The man’s manner seemed to flash a warning to the neophyte. He turned
swiftly and glanced at the _señorita_, and observed that she was
clutching the poniard and staring at the man in horror.

“If the _señorita_ commands--” the neophyte began.

“Will you go out, dog?”

“No--no, Pedro!” the girl implored. “This man----”

But the roar of rage from the throat of the white man drowned the
remainder of her sentence, and the neophyte did not hear. Standing
against the wall he beheld the other man bearing down upon him with
poniard ready.

“I am loyal!” he cried. “I will help you! You do not understand! I am
Pedro, and I have----”

A hand clutched at his throat, the point of the blade was at his
breast. He was hurled to the doorway, staggered, stumbled when the
other man threw weight against him.

“Here is a loyal man--attend to him!” he heard his antagonist shriek.

Then he fell full length into the plaza, and shrieking hostiles rushed
upon him.

“Do not--understand!” he gasped; and died from a pistol shot.

And a laughing renegade hurled the door shut, barred it securely, and
still laughing turned to face the terror-stricken girl crouching at the
corner of the big fireplace.



CHAPTER XXII

“COMMAND ME, SEÑORITA!”


He ignored her a moment longer, running to the window and looking out
across the plaza. The doors of the church were closed, but from the
windows streamed hot lead, and from all parts of the plaza, and from
the rear outside, hostiles were firing at every aperture.

“’Twill not last much longer,” he said, laughing again, and then turned
from the window and confronted the girl.

“So you escaped the rancho?” he went on. “Very clever of you,
_señorita_, though I cannot imagine why you should leave security and
come to this place, where there has been grave danger. You may be glad
to know that your escape caused three Indian guards to lose their
lives. I had promised them death if you evaded them, and I always keep
my promises. I handed them over to their chiefs--it was enough.”

“Oh!” Her cry was of horror, pity, loathing, a world of expression in a
single syllable.

“We investigated the fireplace and chimney, and found an open window,”
he continued. “It was beyond me that you and your _duenna_ could open
the chimney in that manner, for I thought at first, of course, that
you had done so. Then I remembered the stampede of horses, knew you
must have had a mount to make the journey to the mission, and realised
there was help from another source. Who aided you, _señorita_?”

“A gambler, swindler and thief, a wronger of women and a worthless
vagabond, according to the world’s estimate of him,” she replied. “Yet
a man beside whom you are not worthy to crawl, Rojerio Rocha, despite
the blood that flows in your veins.”

“I can imagine but one such contradictory paragon. So it was this man
you call Captain Fly-by-Night?”

“It was, _señor_.”

“Did Señorita Anita Fernandez so far forget herself as to ride through
the night, even with her _duenna_, in company with such a character?”
he sneered. “I had it in mind to wed you, _señorita_, but if you have
been consorting with such persons----”

“_Señor!_” she cried angrily, her face aflame.

“That touches you, does it? However, I am master now. As you are aware,
the revolt has almost made a winning here at San Diego de Alcalá.
Another quarter hour and my hostiles will be inside that church and
attend to their enemies. An hour, and the mission and presidio will
be black ruins, and we return to the rancho for a wedding feast and
honeymoon, _señorita_ mine. So your escape availed you nothing. Did
you hope to escape me again by remaining in the guest house while the
others fled into the church? Or, perhaps, did you hope I’d find you
here, alone?”

“Renegade!” she taunted.

“Hard names do not injure me, _señorita_, in the hour of my success;
and, as I told you before, you are beautiful when aroused and angry.
’Twas a pretty fight your friends put up here at the mission, and cost
us many men, but there was only one end possible. Have you heard of my
exploit, _señorita_? And that reminds me--I was accepted as a friend
by the men in the plaza, so you must not have told them of our little
interview out at the rancho.”

“I told them nothing,” she said.

“Hah! You had that much affection for me, then? You loved your family
name that much?”

“But I regret now that I did not,” she answered.

“It would have been the same had you told. It was a great trick we
played. Hah! Like fools they swallowed the bait. I broke over the hill
and ran, with hostiles pursuing and firing at me. Those at the wall
helped me inside, and I gasped out that I had been held for torture and
had made my escape. It was a pretty bit of acting, I assure you. Then
another attack--and while all were busy it was an easy matter to slip
into the storehouse, put the guard out of the way and throw open the
window. In my friends tumbled--to take the defenders in the rear. Poor
fools!”

“I would to God I had told them!” she cried.

“But you did not, eh? Why not make the best of matters, _señorita_? I
am master and I have said you are to be my bride. Why not surrender
gracefully, when there is nothing else left to do?”

“There is something else left to do,” she answered. “There always is
death waiting.”

Now she stood up and faced him, and he saw that she clutched a poniard
in her hand. The terror had gone out of her face, and in its place was
cool determination. Her lips were set tightly, her bosom heaved with
emotion. There was no doubt in the mind of the man that the girl before
him would plunge that knife into her heart. He knew the proud breed of
the Fernandez.

“There is always death, and it will be welcome,” she went on. “Why
should I live? Do you think, Rojerio Rocha, you ever could claim me for
wife? Do you think I would mate with a renegade murderer whose hands
are stained with loyal blood? Can I live, even if I escape you, with
the knowledge that men and women know one of my family has done such a
thing?”

“If such a thing as escape were possible, you could,” he returned,
lightly. “Unless you have told them, none here knows I have turned
traitor, _señorita_ mine. They have been too busy to watch or question
me since they aided me over the wall. And in a few minutes all will
be dead, since that is the better way, and dead people do not talk of
treason.” A pause. “But escape is not possible.”

“Then--this--” She lifted the poniard again.

“So you would slay yourself, eh? You are young and beautiful to die,
_señorita_. It is a foolish whim.”

He did not take his eyes from hers. He knew she would drive the dagger
home if he attempted to approach. Before he could reach her side and
take the weapon from her, she would thrust it into her breast. He did
not doubt it for an instant.

He tried to think of a subterfuge to get her close to him, so he could
tear the poniard from her hand. If he could make her angry, so she
would attack him, it might be possible.

“Were this man you call Fly-by-Night here in my stead, _señorita_,” he
sneered, “I presume you would drop dagger and rush into his arms. You
speak of a stain on the family name--when you have allowed such a man
to rescue you, have ridden the miles between rancho and mission in his
arms, perhaps----”

Her face flamed again, and he laughed scornfully.

“Captain Fly-by-Night acted the gentleman and caballero,” she replied
hotly. “That is more than you have done, Rojerio Rocha.”

“You look upon me with hatred, and upon this fellow with eyes of love,
perhaps.”

“_Señor!_ It is like you to insult a defenceless girl! Did I have to
give love to one of you, most assuredly it would be this man of whom
you sneer. For you are as far below him, Rojerio Rocha, as the land is
below the sky; and, knowing how low he is considered, that speaks my
estimation for you!”

“A stain on the family name, eh?” he laughed scornfully. “I put it
there, eh? What about you, Señorita Anita? So proud of your good
blood and your family honour, so ready to die because they have been
besmirched, eh? Hah! If there is stain upon blood and name, perhaps you
have placed it there!”

He had gained his purpose now. She gave a cry of rage and rushed upon
him, poniard lifted to strike. He seemed to recoil in sudden panic
as she lunged toward him, then quickly turned to one side and darted
forward. She guessed his trick then, and swung her arm to turn the
blade against her own bosom.

But her arm was caught half-way and twisted so cruelly that the weapon
clattered to the floor, she felt herself clasped to him, felt his
breath on her face, heard his laughter ringing in her ears.

Then his kisses rained upon her face, as she twisted her head in an
effectual effort to escape them. Shame and rage flamed in her cheeks
and throat. She screamed, kicked, tried to free hands and hold him
off, and always he laughed and kissed her more, and finally held her
securely in his arms and looked down at her, while her eyes blazed with
hatred and loathing.

“A pretty tigress!” he cried. “’Twill be a pleasant task to tame you,
my sweet one, but tamed you shall be. How like you to rest in my arms,
eh? Are they not as strong and at the same time as soft as those of
this Captain Fly-by-Night? Struggle, pretty one! The sooner will you
be exhausted. Come with me to the window, queen-to-be, and watch the
culmination of the assault!”

He lifted her from the floor and carried her across the room while she
fought to be free. He held her there at the window, held her hands so
she could not cover her eyes and laughed when he saw that her eyes were
closed.

“You’ll not look?” he said. “Then I’ll relate, _señorita_ mine. Just
now my men are battering at the church doors while others pour volleys
into the windows to drive fear to the hearts of the defenders. Five
minutes more, perhaps, and the fighting will be at an end. I have told
the men to save me one padre. There will be an immediate marriage,
_señorita_----”

“Never will I be wed to you!” she cried. “No padre will say the words!”

“He reads the ceremony or dies, _señorita_. Save his life or not,
as you please; by telling him you are willing you will save it. And
then, if he refuses to speak the words-- Hah! Ceremony or no ceremony,
_señorita_----”

She twisted from his arms and dashed away, but before she could reach
the poniard on the floor he had put a foot upon it, and standing there
he laughed at her again. Shrieks came from the plaza as the hostiles
battered in the doors of the church. The cracking of flames told that
some of the buildings were being destroyed. But the man in the guest
house had attention for nothing except the girl who stood before him
panting in fear and anger.

“Resistance avails you naught,” he said. “Be sensible, my pretty
_señorita_; agree to what I say.”

Terror clutched her now; whimpering, she crouched at the end of the
fireplace.

“Even death is denied me!” she cried. “Is there no escape?”

“None, _señorita_, except by becoming my bride.”

“Never that--renegade, murderer, traitor! If, in all the wide world,
there was but one honest man to aid me now----”

A deep voice interrupted from a corner of the room:

“Command _me_, _señorita_!”



CHAPTER XXIII

LOVE IN DARKNESS


The hand of the girl’s tormentor flew to the hilt of his poniard as he
whirled toward the sound. Anita gave a cry of relief and gladness, and
then stared with bulging eyes toward the corner.

An aperture had appeared in the wall there, and Captain Fly-by-Night
was standing just before it, bowing.

Now he raised his head and advanced two steps, and his blazing eyes
met those of the other man. It seemed to the girl crouching at the end
of the fireplace that the caballero’s shoulders grew broader and that
he grew in height. His clothing was covered with dirt, the beard on
his face was scraggy, there were deep hollows in his cheeks and dark
circles under his eyes--yet Señorita Anita thought him handsome now as
he confronted the man who had insulted her.

“Hah! ’Tis Claudio again!” sneered the raging man in the centre of the
room.

“You call yourself Rojerio Rocha, I believe,” came the answer. “I am
happy to find you here, _señor_. I have promised to slay you.”

“Indeed?”

“To send your black soul to the Hades where it belongs,” the caballero
continued. “Men have died to-day because you plotted--better men than
you! You have broken faith with friends, betrayed those who have been
near you, swindled, lied, insulted helpless women, sent human beings to
agonising death----”

“Enough! This from a man known as Captain Fly-by-Night, a man hunted
by soldiers and hostiles alike? I have but to open the door, my fine
caballero, and some of these same hostiles will finish you in the
twinkling of an eye. You hear those shrieks, caballero? They mean the
hostiles have gained entrance to the church--that I am master--that I
have won!”

“And in the hour of your hellish victory, you are to die! I have
promised it!... _Señorita_, will you kindly step through this hole in
the wall? There will be happenings here women’s eyes should not see.”

“I want--to see,” she gasped.

“I appreciate your feelings in the matter, _señorita_,” the caballero
replied, bowing again. “Do you remain in the corner, then, out of the
way.... As for you, _señor_, I notice you did not carry sword with you
when you pretended an escape and reached sanctuary in the mission. But
there is a poniard in your belt, and another on the floor beneath your
foot. So it shall be poniards, _señor_!”

As he spoke, he took off his sword and threw it in the corner behind
him, took dagger from his belt, and advanced two steps more with
coolness and deliberation, as if he had been treading the measure of a
dance. The man before him retreated, still clutching at his belt.

“’Tis like you,” he cried, “to fight a wounded man. Think you the
slash you gave me in the shoulder has healed?”

“As to that, we are on equal terms,” the caballero announced. “I carry
in my shoulder a musket slug no surgeon has had chance to remove, given
me by one of your sentinels.”

“And why should I fight with you?” the other demanded. “A victorious
general does not cross blades with a fugitive. One call from the door
and you are undone!”

Two quick steps he took toward the door, as if to let down the bar and
throw it open to call.

“Stop!” the caballero commanded. “If for no other reason, you should
fight with me to show you are not a coward, _señor_. This lady, too,
has called for assistance, and I have responded. Seek not to delay me
until your men come from the church in search of you. You fight, else
die with knife in back like a common cur!”

The other whirled toward him, snarling; their wrists crashed together.

They swerved and twisted, trying to gain advantage, the caballero
silent and deliberate as he went about his business of killing this man
who mouthed curses. Thrice around the room they circled, while the girl
crouched in the corner, clasped hands to her breast and breathed deeply
and watched from narrowed eyes.

“If you have prayers to say, renegade, say them now!” the caballero
shouted. “Rojerio Rocha, scion of a noble family--you! In a moment we
shall see whether your blood is blue. You have committed enough crimes
to merit ten deaths, yet I can cause you but one!”

They separated for an instant, clashed again. The caballero spoke no
more, and the watching girl saw that his face was white and that he bit
at his lip and seemed to be growing weak. For the wound in his shoulder
was paining, and he was struggling to keep the film from before his
eyes, conserving strength for the final effort. His antagonist sensed
the advantage and pressed the fighting. A cry of fear for the caballero
came from the girl’s throat.

But he was not to be defeated yet. He braced himself and assumed the
aggressive once more, and again they fought to the centre of the room.
Now fear clutched at the heart of the caballero’s antagonist, and he
showed his craven spirit and love of unfairness.

“Ho!” he shrieked, to be heard above the din of battle in the plaza.
“To the rescue! Hostiles! Your general is being slain! To the rescue!”

A wounded man sitting before the door heard him and spread the alarm.
A score of hostiles left the church and ran across the plaza to peer
through the window of the guest house. They had been told not to enter
there, but what they saw caused them to disregard their orders. In an
instant they were battering at the door and shrieking to their comrades.

They appeared at the windows, some of them holding muskets ready to
fire, but they dared not for fear of sending a bullet to the heart of
their leader. Purposely, the caballero circled so that his enemy was
between him and the windows; and now, feeling his strength going, half
sick because of the pain his shoulder gave him, he attempted a quick
end to the combat.

There flashed through his mind what fate was in store for the
_señorita_ if he went down before this man. He remembered other things,
too, that gave him an unnatural strength.

“The hole in the wall--get to the hole in the wall,” he cried to the
girl; and she glided past the fireplace, not taking her eyes from the
combatants an instant, until she stood where he had commanded.

A heavy timber was being crashed against the door now. Hostiles had
left the windows to help break in. The caballero fell back toward
the aperture, gasping, half reeling, blood flowing from cuts on his
forearm. He staggered, and his antagonist rushed.

And then they were locked in each other’s arms for an instant while the
caballero, calling upon all his remaining strength, bent the other man
backward, broke his hold, drove home the knife!...

He stepped back, and the body of the other crashed to the floor. There
was no question of the man’s death, for the caballero knew his poniard
had found the heart.

Reeling toward the corner, as the heavy door began to splinter, hearing
the cries of the girl in his ears as she begged him to make haste, he
stopped an instant to pick up his sword from the floor. And then he was
by her side, and she was half supporting him with her arms, and the big
door fell with a crash to let a score of hostiles pour over it into the
guest house.

A flash of flame--a bullet struck the wall within a foot of his head!

The caballero laughed wildly, hurled his poniard at the nearest Indian,
stumbled into the dark tunnel and swung shut the section of the wall.
They could hear the hostiles crashing against it on the other side.

They could not see each other in the darkness, yet Señorita Anita
guessed that he was bowing before her; and there was the ring of proud
victory in his voice when he spoke:

“_Señorita_, I have kept my promise--I have slain this
man you called Rojerio Rocha. ’Ware my arm--it is wet!
Perspiration--again--_señorita_!”

Quiet in the tunnel for a moment, save for the caballero’s heavy
breathing and the girl’s gasps, as she still clung to his arm while he
leaned against the dirt wall trying to recover breath and strength.

In the guest house the hostiles were shrieking news of the fact that
their leader had been slain, and telling by whom, and screeches of rage
came from them as they hammered against the strong adobe wall, some
searching in vain for a way of opening the aperture, others doubting
whether the aperture had been there. Some, superstitious, began to
creep away, thinking there was a ghost somewhere in this business.

They could hear, too, the roaring of flames from the burning buildings,
and the volleys of shots continued, showing that the defenders of the
mission still kept up the unequal battle.

“You saved me--saved me,” Anita was breathing.

“I merely kept my promise, _señorita_. Thank you for remaining in the
guest house--for your faith in my words.”

“Yet I doubted at times,” she said.

“No more than natural, since the words were spoken by such a worthless
being as myself.”

“Call yourself worthless no longer!” the girl exclaimed. “Men must have
told falsehoods concerning you. I cannot believe Captain Fly-by-Night
to be the man they say.”

“Worthless compared to yourself, at least, _señorita_. Made better
perhaps by my sudden love for you! But I must not speak of that, since
you will think I insult you again.”

“Ah, it is not an insult now. Have you not saved me?”

“I do not ask love as a reward for service, _señorita_. And--I am
strong again now, and we must be going.”

“Where?” she asked.

“Through this tunnel, though I scarcely know which way to go. The
hostiles may open that hole in the wall soon, then this will be no
safe place for us. I hope I have not saved you to have you placed in
danger again.” He put an arm around her--nor did she protest--and led
her slowly along the narrow cut in the earth, trying to shield her from
falling dirt. Where the tunnel branched, he stopped.

“That way leads to the well in the orchard,” he said. “We dare not go
there now, for the hostiles would see us. This leads to the mortuary
chapel of the mission, a place that can be defended against both sides,
_señorita_. I think it would be the better place. If I must die, where
more appropriate than in a mortuary chapel, eh?”

“Do not speak of dying,” she said. “You must live!”

“Had I something for which to live----!”

“More than I have,” she replied. “What is there in the future for me?
Where is there escape from this present predicament? Where can Anita
Fernandez hold up her head, even if she escaped, since all will know
one of her blood did this thing?”

“Think of your own sweet character, _señorita_! The faults of another
cannot change that. You must live--live! We will make our way to the
chapel, and please the saints I can hold it until the Governor comes! I
pray he arrives soon, else he will find nothing but ruins and dead men.”

“If he does not come--? If he stops at San Luis Rey de Francia to give
aid there----?”

“Then perhaps we are lost,” the caballero replied.

“You will not let them take me. You will slay me first?”

“You ask me to kill the thing I love,” he said. “Yet my love is great
enough, I think, to do even that to save you from a worse fate. I
promise, _señorita_. Yet I pray nothing of the sort will be necessary.
I pray the Governor comes, and I can save you until then, and hand you
over to him safely.”

“And--yourself--?” she asked.

“I am not concerned about myself. Life means nothing to me, _señorita_,
when it does not hold your affection. Ah, do not turn away----”

“I am not turning away.”

“You have called me gambler, swindler, wronger of women. I swear I am
not the last, _señorita_, nor have I ever swindled a man. Yet I am
the notorious Captain Fly-by-Night, you say. I made a foolish boast
that was an insult to you and was ostracized by all at San Diego de
Alcalá--that is what I was told when I first came. I suffered--and you
were kind. I saw you--and I knew what love was. Can you conceive that
love would purify a man, _señorita_, make him over, make him regret
every mean and petty thing he had done in his life?”

“I--do not know.”

“We are in darkness here and you cannot see my face, but, if you could,
I’d not be afraid you could read deceit there now. I’d gladly die a
thousand deaths to save you a moment’s pain. I’d die ten thousand if I
could feel your lips on mine an instant, know that your heart was mine!
I often have laughed at love, but now I know its depth and sacredness.
_Dios!_ If there was but the slightest hope----”

Her hand tightened on his arm; her voice was the ghost of a whisper
when she answered:

“How do you know there is not?”

“You play with me!” he said.

“And why should I, caballero? Since you met me you have given me no
affront. Twice you have saved me----”

“It is gratitude makes you speak!”

“It is not gratitude, caballero. And, whatever it is, I have fought
against it in vain.”

“It is pity!”

“It is--is love,” she said.

“For me?”

“For you, caballero. I hated your name before you came to San Diego
de Alcalá. I hated you when you arrived. I tried to keep on hating
you, and could not. Ah, have pity and be kind to me! Father, mother,
friends--all are gone. There remains but you. Have pity--and be kind.”

“You need not offer me love to gain my protection, _señorita_. You have
that always.”

“Can you not understand? I loved you even before you rescued me this
day. When we were coming from the rancho I would have been glad had you
covered my face with kisses. That is immodest, perhaps, but I care not.
It seems that love only counts now.”

“But if I am Captain Fly-by-Night, a rogue and outcast----”

“I love you!”

“Spurned by loyal men and traitors alike----?”

“I love you!”

“The man who boasted he would win you, _señorita_----?”

“You have made good your boast--you have won--still I love you!” she
cried.

“_Dios!_ The saints are good at last! Ah, loved one, could I but see
your face now!”

“There would be no deceit in it, caballero. I love you! Have pity, and
be kind!”

“Kind! May the saints teach me new ways of kindness! We must live--we
must live now!”

He clasped her close, rained kisses on her face, felt her own lips
respond to his, knew that tears were streaming down her cheeks. In the
darkness that put night to shame they plighted troth, while the shrieks
of hostiles came to their ears, and the cracking of flames, and the
knowledge of violence and pain and death was in their minds. Yet in
their hearts was a song such as love always causes, and a new courage
to face whatever was to come....

“To the chapel--it is the only chance,” he said, after a time. “I pray
the Governor arrives soon!”

“And then--?” she asked. There was sudden fear in her heart for her
caballero. Had not the Governor ordered him taken alive or dead? Where
was the way out?

But he had no chance to answer. Behind them a shaft of light struck
into the tunnel; the shrieks came nearer. The hostiles had found the
opening at last. Now they advanced swiftly, pistols ready, holding
torches above their heads, crying vengeance on the caballero who had
slain their leader.

With the girl still clasped in his arms, he stumbled on through the
tunnel, making better progress than his pursuers since he had been
through it so often before. He stopped once to discharge his pistol and
check them for a moment, and then staggered on, bending low where the
tunnel was small, running at times, shielding the _señorita_ at the
sharp turns.

He stopped. Far behind were the cries of their pursuers; ahead was the
din of battle. The caballero peered through the crack into the mortuary
chapel and saw one wounded soldier there tying a bandage on his arm.
The door to the main part of the church was almost closed.

He hesitated only long enough to whisper instructions to the girl, then
tugged at the section of wall so that it swung inward. With a bound he
was in the chapel, his empty pistol menacing the trooper. Anita ran in
behind him.

“Hold!” the caballero cried. “Not a move, _señor_, else you die!”

Covering the soldier with the weapon, he went back and swung the
section of wall shut again. Then he whirled and advanced toward the
other man, drove him ahead, hurried him through the door into the main
body of the church and dropped the heavy bar.

“The last stand,” he laughed, clasping the girl to him again. “Foes
behind; foes ahead; here we fight it out, beloved!”

They could hear the wounded soldier screeching the news to soldiers and
frailes. Captain Fly-by-Night had appeared from nowhere in the mortuary
chapel; Señorita Anita was with him! She was in the power of Captain
Fly-by-Night!

But the caballero paid scant attention to the wails of the trooper he
had startled. He was working frantically to block the opening in the
wall. Benches, railings, adobe blocks, huge cubes of stone he tore from
their places and piled against the movable section of masonry. The
hostiles would have difficulty entering that way!

They heard the Indians in the tunnel screeching their anger at being
thus blocked. Light from their torches came through the crack. From
the main part of the church rolled the sound of volleys, the ringing
of blades, groans, screams. Someone was pounding on the door of the
mortuary chapel.

Anita Fernandez stood against the wall, breathing quickly, a whimsical
smile on her lips, something of timidity in her manner now, and watched
the man to whom she had given her kisses. For, despite danger and noise
of battle, the caballero sat on a block of stone and loaded his pistol
again--and as he loaded it he smiled and hummed a song.



CHAPTER XXIV

LOVE PROVES TRUE


The hammering at the door of the mortuary chapel ceased after a time,
for those in the main part of the church had more serious business
to occupy their attention than the attempted capture of Captain
Fly-by-Night.

The front doors of the church had been battered in, and several times
hostiles had invaded the building, but always to be driven back after
suffering heavy losses, for men can fight with thrice their usual
strength and courage when making a last stand against an overwhelming
foe.

Now storehouse and hospital building and guest house were burning, the
most of the loot having been removed, and clouds of heavy smoke poured
into the church, half suffocating the defenders there, yet at the same
time proving a blessing, since the dense pall made it impossible for
those in the plaza to get good aim at a defender.

In a corner Señora Vallejo, some wives of ranchers and a few loyal
Indian women and children crouched, the most of the time at their
prayers. Dead men were against one wall, wounded against another, a
fray attending to the latter. At the windows and both sides of the
doorway stern men waited with muskets and pistols to fire whenever a
hostile could be seen through the smoke. Thanks to the action of the
_comandante_ in removing supplies from the presidio, there was an
abundance of ammunition.

Yet the defenders were being cut down one at a time, and it seemed only
a question of hours until the enemy would triumph. It was the sudden,
unexpected rushes those in the church feared, for if enough hostiles
could invade the church at one time the defenders would be scattered
and cut down.

“A ghost, eh?” Cassara was shouting in Gonzales’s ear. “So this Captain
Fly-by-Night is in the mortuary chapel, eh? I told you I saw him go
into the church. He has been hiding there!”

“The imbecile trooper declares Señorita Anita is with him, and how can
that be?” Gonzales wanted to know. “We are all aware that she was left
behind in the guest house, and that Rojerio Rocha went there to save
her. Since the guest house is in flames, it is to be supposed both died
there.”

“The trooper saw double,” Cassara replied. “He had been wounded. But
Captain Fly-by-Night is there, nevertheless, and presently we shall
attend to him. Hah! When I stand before him----”

“If I do not face him first,” Gonzales interrupted.

“Bar the door, will he? ’Twill not take me long to break it in when I
am at liberty to do so. ’Ware the window, good pirate! They are coming
again!”

The hostiles had prepared for another rush, and now they made it,
plunging through the smoke and into the church in an effort to
exterminate their foes. A concentrated fire met them, as it had several
times before. Some fell; others rushed on.

Here and there the combat was hand-to-hand. Every foot of the way they
found disputed by a determined man. They were driven out again, leaving
dead and wounded behind them; and those inside placed another man
against the wall and bound up more wounds.

The smoke was stifling now. Women and children hung around the big
water jars, gasping for breath. The faces of the men were grimy, their
eyes red. _Comandante_ and ensign rushed from one part of the church
to another, alert for possible tricks of the enemy, taking advantage
where it was possible. Frailes were building a barricade in a corner,
preparing for the forlorn hope.

The Indians in the plaza seemed to be quiet for a moment, and then
their shrieks were redoubled, and another assault was launched. Hoarse
voices of chiefs shouted orders, a fusillade of shots tore through the
doorway, and for a moment no man could live at the windows. Then came
the rush!

More than one man felt that it was the last. The ranks of the defenders
had been cut down until a mere handful remained. The frailes hurried
women and children behind the barricade in the corner, and the soldiers
retreated foot by foot, resisting stubbornly but in vain. At close
quarters shots were exchanged, blades rang, fingers tore at throats.

“Back--back! The barricade!” the _comandante_ ordered.

Back they fell, step by step, still resisting, carrying wounded with
them. Behind them the frailes and women were loading muskets and
pistols, for the soldiers had no time to load now. One by one they
gained the shelter of the barricade, until all were behind it, and then
the hostiles faced a volley that drove them raging back toward the
doorway. But they were inside the church--and the end was near.

       *       *       *       *       *

In the mortuary chapel the caballero had been listening at the door,
and when he turned to face the _señorita_ his face held an expression
she never had seen in it before.

“What is it?” she asked.

“The hostiles are inside--they have driven the defenders to a corner,”
he replied.

“Then----?”

“Everything may end for us here. They will be before us and behind us.
Either they will enter, or else fire the building. It is best to tell
you the truth, _señorita_; we are in a trap.”

“If--they enter--you will remember your promise?”

He held out his arms, and she slipped into them, and for a moment their
lips met. He was almost sobbing when he answered.

“I’ll remember.”

“You’ll not let them take me alive?”

“Never that, _señorita_! I wish we might face a different future. I am
just beginning to find life worth the living,” he said. “But at least I
can die knowing your heart is mine.”

Hostiles in the tunnel were still battering against the wall, trying
to gain entrance. The caballero had been watching there carefully, yet
found no cause for alarm. One shot had come through the crack, but it
was an easy matter to stand in such part of the chapel that no bullet
could reach them.

He crept to the door again and listened, Anita close behind him. The
shots seemed to be scattering now, and he sensed that the Indians were
preparing for the last rush. He heard the _comandante_ shouting orders.
Children were crying; the voice of a fray in prayer could be heard
above the din.

Again the men in the tunnel assaulted the wall, and the caballero left
the door quickly to stand in the centre of the room, pistol and sword
ready in case an entrance should be made. But the barricade he had
constructed against the section of masonry held despite the furious
attack upon it.

In the church there was another chorus of shrieks, a volley, cries of
pain and rage--for the final attack had begun. The caballero clasped
Anita in his arms again, and so they waited for the end, the girl with
her face against his shoulder and fingers in ears to keep out the death
wails and frenzied cries.

The defenders were shouting now, in mock courage the caballero thought,
going down to their deaths fighting, dying like men. Suddenly the
battering at the wall ceased, and cries from the tunnel told that the
Indians were retreating quickly. Word had been passed to them, he
supposed, that victory was in the front, and they were eager to be in
at the death. They would watch the outlets of the tunnel, of course;
there could be no escape that way.

“It is the end, beloved,” the caballero breathed. “Our love dies almost
as soon as ’twas born. You do not regret----?”

“I regret only that we cannot spend a life together, my caballero,” she
replied. “Ah, ’tis cruel!”

Again their lips touched, and then he half turned from her, and
motioned to the corner.

“Pray,” he whispered. “Pray there, beloved, with your back to me. I
could not do it if I looked into your face. Pray until the end----”

Now she was white of face, and her lips were trembling, but she only
looked him once in the eyes and then did as he said. Facing the wall,
she knelt and prayed, while the caballero looked to his pistol to see
that it was properly charged, and himself said a prayer under his
breath.

Six feet behind her he stood, his eyes upon the floor, his ears
strained to catch every sound from the church. The defenders were
putting up a stubborn resistance, for the _comandante_ was still
screeching orders, and the volleys crashed, and the hostiles shrieked
their anger at being held from their prey.

And then the tone of the shrieks changed from anger to fear! The
caballero stepped swiftly close to the door. He heard the defenders
cheering; heard heavy volleying that was not inside the church; heard
strong voices raised in shouts and the sound of galloping hoofs, the
wailing cry of a fray.

“My God, I thank Thee!”

Sergeant Cassara’s great voice was raised in a howl of relief and
encouragement. Running feet sounded in the church. The caballero’s
heart was pounding at his ribs, and he was trying to beat from his
brain the sudden hope he felt for fear it would prove unfounded.

Another volley; another chorus of shrieks as from a far distance; more
cries of anger, and gladness, and surprise! Then a strong voice that
had not been heard before:

“At those flames, some of you men! Help the wounded here! Get the women
and children out of the smoke! Lieutenant, see that every hostile is
run down--we want not one to escape! If we had been a minute later----”

Señorita Anita, busy with her prayers and her agony of mind, had not
noticed these things. And now the caballero, with a glad cry, ran to
her, lifted her bodily from the floor, and covered her face with kisses.

“The Governor, beloved!” he cried. “His excellency has come--in time!
Oh, beloved--beloved!”

Once more the pounding on the door!

“Open, in the Governor’s name! We know you are there, Captain
Fly-by-Night! There is no escape! Open!”

The caballero stood in the centre of the chapel with Anita nestling
against his breast, and he spoke in whispers, giving no attention to
the summons at the door.

“You are safe now, beloved,” he said. “The world has not come to an
end, you see. It is pretty much as it was before this revolt. You
can be again with your friends, with people of your rank. Is life not
good--after all?”

“With you it is,” she whispered in reply.

“When all was dark you spoke of love to me,” he went on. “There was
nothing in the future for you then. But now there is everything in the
future. You can face the world again----”

“Stained by a relative’s act, caballero?”

“Who knows of that? It is believed Rojerio Rocha died a loyal man.
You know differently, and your _duenna_, and myself. None ever will
open lips to speak of it. None other ever will know, _señorita_. You
can hold up your pretty head as before, and live, and be happy. At
the rancho the months will dim the memories of this thing. Think,
_señorita_! You have no need of me now.”

“No need of you?” she asked.

“Have you, _señorita_? Things are different now. No longer do you need
the worthless caballero like myself. Could you hold up your head if
’twas known Captain Fly-by-Night held your love?”

“I could,” she said, “and proudly!”

“If the man who boasted had won you----?”

“Still, I could!”

“Gambler, thief--renegade----?”

“The caballero who saved me, and whom I love--none other! And no
renegade!”

“Yet there were orders to take me, dead or alive. Think you these dead
and wounded men will change the Governor’s mind? I swear I had no part
in this revolt, _señorita_, but none will think so, except perhaps
your charitable self.”

They were pounding on the door again, but the caballero gave no reply.

“I love you,” she said simply.

“You gave me word of your love while in deadly peril, _señorita_, at
a time when no other man could offer you protection, perhaps through
momentary gratitude at what I had done. Now it is not necessary,
_señorita_, for you to stand by that word. You have but to go through
that door to be with your friends again--you need not lower yourself
longer by companionship with Captain Fly-by-Night.”

“There is no one else,” she answered. “All are gone. And were there a
million, did to stand by you mean to be ostracized by all the world,
yet by your side I’d stand. Anita Fernandez does not give love for
gratitude, _señor_. And she gives it but once!”

“My beloved!” he cried, holding her close.

Now the battering at the door would be denied no longer, and the
Governor’s voice came to them.

“Inside, there! Open, Fly-by-Night, for there is no escape. If you have
harmed the _señorita_----”

“I am here and safe,” the girl called.

“Thank Heaven!” they heard the Governor exclaim. “Open and surrender,
Fly-by-Night! Surrender and take the consequences of your act!”

The caballero looked down at the girl again.

“There is no other way,” he said. “There is no escape----”

“N--no! Have you forgotten? Even if you can prove you had no part in
the uprising, there is still another charge. Did you not slay Rojerio
Rocha? He was the Governor’s friend. My word, the _señora’s_, that
he was the real renegade, would not be taken in the absence of other
proof. Think you the Governor would believe ill of his dead friend?
They’d have your life----”

“There is no other way, beloved. One kiss--again--and I must open the
door!”

“No--no! I cannot lose you now!”

“It would be better for you to pretend no interest in me,” he said.
“Then my death as a felon will not stain you.”

“I stand by you, caballero, in the fact of whatever may occur; I tell
my love to the world as soon as you open that door; I fight to save
you--use every influence--and will be proud to let all know it! What
care I what the world says, caballero? I know the man who holds my
love--know him better than the world that has maligned him----”

“Ah!” he cried, and covered her face with kisses again. “This were love
indeed!”

“Open the door, or we batter it down!” thundered the Governor’s voice.

“I’ll open it presently!” the caballero cried.

In the other room there was quiet for a moment while they awaited the
caballero’s appearance. Before the door were Gonzales, Cassara, Ensign
Sanchez, the lieutenant, all with swords drawn and held ready, all of
them wounded slightly, all fatigued, yet all eager to cross blades with
Captain Fly-by-Night.

“Back!” the Governor was ordering them. “I want this man alive, to make
an example of him!”

Inside, the caballero took his arms from around the girl, and stepped
to the door. In the face of such a predicament he still could smile and
hum a song. But, as he touched the bar, Anita grasped his arm.

“I go out first,” she said.

“No----”

“Ah, do not deny me! There is something I would say----”

“As you please, _señorita_.”

“Kiss me again--again! Now--open the door!”

He took down the heavy bar and threw the door open. Those outside
beheld Señorita Anita Fernandez standing before them, the caballero
behind her. The girl’s head was lifted proudly, and her eyes flashed as
of old, and she looked the Governor straight in the face as she spoke:

“Before this man gives himself to you I want you to know that I love
him better than all the world----”

“Anita!” cried Señora Vallejo from one side.

“I want you to know that he denies being a leader of the hostiles, and
that I believe him. Twice he saved me from dishonour and death. No
affront has he offered. It is true he killed Rojerio Rocha, and, as for
that----”

She stopped; for suddenly the caballero had stepped beside her, the
whimsical smile playing about his face.

“Good day, your excellency!” he said, bowing low.

And his excellency, the Governor, bent forward, eyes bulging, lower jaw
sagging for a brief second, then straightened and roared aloud:

“By the saints! Killed Rojerio Rocha, eh, girl? Hah! By the saints,
this man before us is Rojerio Rocha, my good friend! Ah, boy, boy! They
told me you had been slain!”

Before them all he took the dishevelled caballero in his arms!



CHAPTER XXV

THE SERGEANT SLEEPS AGAIN


“Explain, rogue!” cried the Governor half an hour later. They were in
the plaza, where a temporary camp had been established. The fires were
out, the smoke had drifted away. Wounded had received attention, and
preparations were being made for burying the dead. In all directions
troopers pursued hostiles and cut them down.

His excellency had told how the revolt at San Luis Rey de Francia and
other missions had been quelled. The body on the floor of the guest
house had been examined and word passed that here was the genuine
Fly-by-Night, renegade and conspirator, and that the real Rojerio Rocha
had slain him.

“Explain?” the caballero echoed. “’Tis a simple matter. When I reached
San Diego de Alcalá I was mistaken for this Fly-by-Night. I thought to
have jest by assuming the rôle. Then the hostiles, taking me for their
leader through the same misunderstanding, came to tell me their plans.
Being a loyal man, I maintained my rôle to learn all possible, and
tried in every way to delay the attack until the force from the north
could arrive.”

“Very good, my boy!” his excellency exclaimed.

“But they grew suspicious and soon I found myself at outs with white
men and red. Then came word for Captain Fly-by-Night to be taken dead
or alive at all costs. To everyone here I was Fly-by-Night, of course.
The description sent----”

“A fool of a cleric copied your description from the pass record by
mistake,” cried the Governor. “I’ll send him packing when I return!”

“It was at San Juan Capistrano that I first met discourtesy,” the
caballero went on. “They knew of this Fly-by-Night’s insult to the
_señorita_, assumed I was the man come to win her, and gave me to
understand how they regarded me. Sorry trouble I faced by pretending to
be another man.

“Then the real Fly-by-Night came, and because Rojerio Rocha was due,
he was hailed as such. It amused him, no doubt, to be called Rocha
and introduced to the _señorita_, placed in a position to win her.
Moreover, it gave him a chance to continue plotting in security--for
who would suspect Rojerio Rocha? You understand? And I could say
nothing then, being known as Fly-by-Night. Oh, it was a pretty mess!
Things were happening with such rapidity that he was not asked to show
credentials, of course----”

“And you faced death,” said the Governor, “became fugitive, allowed
people to call you despicable in order to be of service to the state? A
worthy caballero!”

“That was not all the object,” the caballero replied, laughing lightly
and looking at Anita again. “I had heard of Fly-by-Night’s boast, you
see; and when they took me for him I thought it would be a lark to
approach the _señorita_ in that guise. I was coming to wed her at
her father’s request, you see. We were as good as wed, you might say,
yet never had seen each other. How much better--I am sure you will
understand, excellency--to win her true love under another name, to be
sure she was wedding the man, not the distant relative her father had
commanded her to wed.

“You see my point? And, if I could win her love as Captain
Fly-by-Night, the man she despised--if I could turn her hatred and
repugnance to affection, would I not be sure it was real love?”

“Hah!” the Governor cried, and looked at the blushing girl.

“It was done,” the caballero said. “And--thank the saints, it has been
proved the love is real!”

And then he crossed before them, and Anita, seeing him coming, got upon
her feet, and he took her into his arms and kissed her there before
them all.

A padre lifted hand in blessing; Señora Vallejo smiled; the Governor
nodded in approval; Gonzales, good pirate, swore softly under his
breath at this display of young affection; and Sergeant Cassara slapped
his thigh and cried unto the sky.

“_Dios!_ So I cannot slay him after all? He is a friend of the
Governor, eh? Not Fly-by-Night, but Rojerio Rocha, a proper fellow! I
shall go mad! Better, I shall go to sleep for the saints know I need
it!”

He threw himself on the ground against the wall; and presently he
snored.

And so the tale ends as it began, with Sergeant Carlos Cassara.


THE END



Transcriber’s Notes

1. Spelling, punctuation, and hyphenation were corrected for
consistency. Archaic spelling was retained.

2. Quotation marks were added for clarity when the placement
was obvious.

3. Simple typographical errors were corrected.

4. Duplicate title removed from p. 9.

5. New original cover art included with this eBook is granted
to the public domain.




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