Steve Yeager Part 37

Pasquale was as good as his word. He arranged that Yeager should see the function from first to last. The wounded man, his hands tied behind his back, heavily guarded, was in the front row of the crowd which lined the short walk between the headquarters of the general and the little adobe church. The petty officer in command told him that after the bridal procession had pa.s.sed he was to be taken into the balcony of the church for the ceremony.

"And afterward, while Gabriel makes love to the muchacha, the Gringo Yeager will learn what it means to displease the Liberator," promised the brown man with a twinkle of cruel little eyes.

Steve gave no sign that he heard. He understood perfectly that the ingenuity of Pasquale would make the day one long succession of tortures for him. It was up to him to mask his face and manner with the stoicism of an Apache.

At a little distance he saw Farrar and Threewit, both of them very anxious and pale. He would have called a greeting to them except that he was afraid it might prejudice their chances.

Captain Holcomb pa.s.sed in front of him and stopped.

"Mornin', Steve," he said.

"Mornin', captain." The haggard eyes of the cowpuncher asked a question before his lips framed it. "Can't you do anything for the little girl?

Has this h.e.l.lish thing got to go through?"

"The prisoner will keep silent," snapped the Mexican sergeant.

Holcomb looked at the man with eyes of chill authority. "When I speak to the prisoner he answers. Understand?"

"Si, senor," muttered the sergeant, taken aback. "But the general said--"

"Forget it," cut in the Texan crisply. He turned to Yeager and spoke deliberately, looking straight at him. "Pasquale is going through with this thing. Just as sure as the old reprobate is alive the padre will marry your little friend to him within half an hour."

Was Captain Holcomb giving him a message? Steve did not know. It seemed to him that there was some hidden meaning in the long look of the steady eyes.

The soldier nodded curtly and turned away. The Texan was dressed with unusual care. He was wearing tanned boots newly polished and the trim khaki uniform of an officer of the United States Army. Looking at him, Yeager thought he had never seen a finer figure of a man. He carried himself with the light firmness of a trained soldier.

The cowpuncher was puzzled. Had Holcomb an ace up his sleeve? If so, what could it be? He had said that the marriage would be pushed through _just as sure as Pasquale was alive_. Had there been the slightest emphasis on that part of the sentence? Steve was not certain. It had struck him that the captain's soft voice had lingered on the words, but that might have been fancy. Yet he could not escape the feeling that something tragic was impending.

The chattering of the peons crowded in the road died away as if at a signal. From the other end of the line rose a shout. "Viva Pasquale!

Viva Pasquale!"

Troopers pushed through and opened up a lane.

The general was for once in full uniform. Evidently he had just come from the hands of a barber. His fierce mustache and eyebrows had been trimmed and subdued. He smiled broadly as he bowed to the plaudits of his men.

Then he turned and Steve caught sight of the bride. Colorless to the lips, she trembled as she moved forward, her eyes on the ground.

It was as if some bell rang within her to tell of the presence of her lover. Ruth raised her big sad eyes and they met those of Steve. Her lips framed his name soundlessly. She seemed to lean toward him, straining from Pasquale, whose arm supported her.

Somehow she broke free and flung herself toward the man she loved. Her arms fastened around his neck. With a shivering sob she clung tightly to him.

Pasquale, his eyes stabbing with brutal rage, dragged her back and held her wrist in his sinewy brown hand. His teeth were clenched, the veins in his temples swollen. He glared at the cowpuncher as if he would like to murder him on the spot.

The padre touched Gabriel on the arm. With a start the Liberator came to himself. The procession moved forward again. Not a word had been spoken, but Pasquale's golden smile had vanished. The fingernails of his clenched fist bit savagely into the palm of his hand.

From the procession Culvera saluted Yeager ironically. "Buenos and adios, senor."

The man to whom he spoke did not even know the Mexican was there. His eyes and his mind were following the girl who was being driven to her doom.

From out of the crowd edging the walk a man stepped. It was Adam Holcomb. He stood directly in front of Pasquale and his bride, blocking the way. There was a strange light in his eyes. It was as if he looked from the present far into the future, as if somehow he were a G.o.d, an Olympian who held in his hand the shears of destiny.

The general, still furious, flung an angry look at him. "Well?" he demanded harshly.

"I want to ask the lady a question, general."

Impatient rage boiled out of Pasquale in an imperious gesture of his arm. "Afterward, captain. You shall ask her a hundred. Move aside."

"I'll ask it now. This wedding doesn't go on until I hear from the young lady that she is willing," he announced.

Ruth tried to run forward to him, but the iron grip of the Mexican stayed her. "Save me," she cried.

"By G.o.d! I will."

"Arrest that man," ordered Pasquale in a pa.s.sion.

At the same time he pushed Ruth from him into the crowd that lined the path. The brown fingers of the Mexican chief closed upon the handle of his revolver.

"Here's where I go on a long journey," the Texan cried.

He dragged out an army forty-five. Pasquale and he fired at the same instant. The Mexican clutched at his heart and swayed back into the crowd. Holcomb staggered, but recovered himself. He faced the other Mexican officers, tossed away his revolver, and folded his arms.

"Whenever you are ready, gentlemen," he said quietly.

Ramon Culvera was the first to recover. From his automatic revolver he flung a bullet into the straight, erect figure facing him. The others crowded forward and fired into the body as it began to sink. The Texan gave a sobbing sigh. Before his knees reached the ground he was dead.

The suddenness of the tragedy, its unexpectedness, held the crowd with suspended breath. What was to follow? Was this the beginning of a ma.s.sacre? Each man looked at his neighbor. Another moment might bring forth anything.

With a bound Ramon vaulted to the saddle of a horse standing near. His sword made a half-circle of steel as it swept through the air. From where he sat he could be seen by all.

"Brothers of the Legion, patriots all, let none become excited. I have killed with my own hand the traitor who shot our beloved leader. Gabriel Pasquale is dead, but our country lives. Viva Mexico!"

The answer came from thousands of brown, upturned faces. "Viva Mexico!

Viva Culvera!"

The young officer swung the sword around his head. His eyes flashed.

"Gracias. Friends, I solemnly pledge my life to the great cause of the people. Our hero is dead. We mourn him and devote ourselves anew to the principles for which he fought. Never shall I lay down this sword until I have won for you the rights of a free nation. I promise you land for all, wealth for all, freedom from tyranny. Down with all the foes of the poor."

Again the shouts rang out, this time louder and clearer. Already these simple, childlike peons were answering the call of their new master. Old Pasquale, who for years had held their lives in the hollow of his hand, lay crumpled on the ground almost forgotten. A new star was shining in their firmament.

"We shall march to Mexico, down the usurper, and distribute the stolen wealth of him and his pampered minions among the people to whom it belongs. Every Mexican shall have a house, land, cattle. He shall be the slave of none. His children shall be fed. We shall have peace and plenty. I, Ramon Culvera, swear it. Mexico for the Mexicans."

Culvera was an orator. His resonant voice stirred the emotions of this ragged mob that under the leadership of Pasquale had been hammered into an army efficient enough to defeat well-armed regulars. The men pressed closer to listen. Their primitive faces reflected the excitement the speaker stirred in them. They interrupted with shouts and cheers.

Others among the officers had ambitions for leadership, but they knew now that Ramon had made the moment his and forestalled them. He had won the army over to him.

He spoke briefly, but he took pains to see that no other speaker followed him. The plaudits for "General Culvera" rang like sweet music in his ears. They told him that he had at a bound pa.s.sed the officers who ranked him and was already in effect chief of the Army of the North.

Briefly he gave directions for the care of the body of the dead general and for the safety of the American prisoners pending a disposition of their cases. Before dismissing the army, he called an immediate conference of the officers.