Part 8 (1/2)
”We are seeking Moreno's,” continued the first voice. ”The Apaches jumped our outfit just after sunset and we had to run for it.”
”How many are there of you all told?” demanded Harvey.
”Only us two. We're partners, prospecting,--been down towards the Sonora line. For the Lord's sake, gentlemen, don't keep us out here.
We've lost everything we had,--packs, packers, and grub. We're about dead beat for a drink and something to eat.”
”What do you think of this, major?” whispered Harvey. ”Those are Americans sure.”
”Well, I'd let'em in,” said the major; ”but where the devil's Feeny?
He's the best judge, really. Their story may be all true. They may be alone.”
”I don't know; it isn't likely. You heard that voice out there a moment ago; that was Mexican beyond any doubt. We've got to stand those fellows off till we hear from Feeny.” Then, raising his voice, Harvey called,--
”Just stay where you are a moment. You're all right perhaps, but our guards have orders to be on the lookout for Morales and his gang, and you might get shot by mistake.”
”Well, for G.o.d's sake turn out your men, if you've got any, and help us catch these murdering thieves,” was the impatient reply. ”How many are you?”
”Oh, there's plenty of us here,” was Harvey's cheery answer. ”Most of 'C' troop; but we've other business on hand just now. You wait there quietly for a minute or two until the sergeant comes around with the patrol; he'll see to you.”
And then, as though the whole thing had been planned beforehand, out in the darkness to the north Feeny's voice was heard in low-toned but sharp command,--
”Patrol, halt! Close up there, Kennedy. Where are you, Number Five?”
And so, cool and confident as though he had a dozen troopers at his back, Feeny came striding up to the spot.
”What's the matter, sentry? Didn't I hear you parleying here with somebody?”
”Two strangers out there, sergeant;--say they're prospectors and been jumped by Apaches.”
”Hwere away are they?” Then in low tone, ”Go you out beyond the corral,” he whispered to old Plummer. ”There's four of them out there.
Challenge if they try to come in.” Then aloud again, ”Shure, I don't see anything, sentry.”
”Right out ahead there, sergeant. Two men, mounted.”
”Come down, one of ye. Dismount and come in here. Lave your gun behind. Give your reins to your pal there,” was Feeny's next mandate.
There was a moment of hesitation, a faint sound of whispering as though the self-styled prospectors were in consultation, and again Feeny spoke in tone more sharp and imperative,--
”Dismount one, I say. Come in here, or I'll send a bullet for your cards. Quick now.”
Still another delay. The ”prospectors” seemed anxious to edge off into deeper darkness.
”If ye're not off that horse's back in ten seconds, be jabers, I'll fire, so be lively.” And as his excitement rose so did Feeny's Irish.
Four--five seconds ticked by and still there was no approach.
Fiercely, with sharp emphasis, the sergeant brought his carbine to full c.o.c.k. ”It's aiming I am,” said he, as he quickly raised the b.u.t.t to his shoulder. There was a sudden scurry and scramble of horses'
hoofs, low-voiced words of warning and a muttered curse or two. Then leaped a tongue of fire into the night, and from the corral corner came sharp report, followed by a cry, a gurgle, a groan, then silence.
”My G.o.d! they've shot the major,” exclaimed Harvey, as he leaped away in the direction of the shot. At the same moment away sped the two hors.e.m.e.n in front of the post. No use to fire. They were shrouded in thick darkness and out of harm's way before one could pull trigger.
Then came two flashes, two quick reports, then half a dozen rapid, sputtering revolver-shots, then a vengeful howl and a rush out on the plain. Feeny ran like a deer on the trail of Mr. Harvey, and in less time than it takes to tell it they came upon the paymaster, sinking shocked and nerveless to the sandy soil, his hands clasping on his side.