Part 12 (1/2)

”I promise, Mary,” says I.

”Will, boy, I love you,” she said, ”and I love you because there's nothing silly in that honest red head of yours to misunderstand me. I want to be your dear sister--and to think that you might, too--” She broke off, and the tears overflowed.

Looking at her, a hard suspicion of Saxton jolted me. I didn't know a great deal of the crooked side, but, of course, I had a glimmer, and it struck me that if he had been cutting up bad, when he pretended to care for this girl, he needed killing.

”Tell me, Mary,” I asked her, ”has Arthur--”

”Hush, Will--I can tell you nothing. You must see with your own eyes.

And here's a kiss for your promise--which will be kept! And to-morrow at three you're to be here again.”

And off I goes up the road sitting very straight, and I tell you, if it hadn't been for the mean suspicion of Saxton, what with the mouse-colored horse waving his cream mane and tail, my new steeple hat, the sash with a gun and machete in it, the spurs jingling, the memory of having chased a fierce road-agent to a finish, and the kiss of the most beautiful woman in the world on my lips, I'd been a medium well-feeling sort of boy. I guess my anxiety about Saxton didn't quite succeed in drowning the other, neither. You can't expect too much of scant eighteen.

X

”YOUR LIFE, IF YOU HURT HIM!”

I hadn't thought to ask what Saxton was at in a business way. I didn't know where to find him; there was no use in going back, so I rode at random through the streets.

As I swung into a dark alley I came upon a fierce and quiet little fight. Two men set upon a third, who had his back against the wall. The knives flashed, they ducked, parried, got away, cut and come again with a quickness and a savageness that lifted my hair. Jeeminy! There was spirit in that row! And not a sound except the soft sliding of feet and the noise of blows. They'd all been touched, too; red showed here and there on them, as well as on the stones.

While I looked the one man slipped and came down on his back, striking his head and his right elbow, the knife flying out of his hand.

I breathed quicker--some fights make you feel warlike--and when I see the other two dive right at the man, down and helpless, I broke the silence and the peace at one and the same instant. The mouse-colored horse b.u.t.ted a lad sailing down the alley. I grabbed the other up on the saddle and cuffed him with all my heart.

”You dirty Mut!” says I. ”Two of you on one man! Have something with me,” and I slapped his black face to a blister. He tried to get at me with the knife, but a pinch on the neck loosened his grip.

The feller the little horse rammed got on his feet, looking like he was going to return for a minute; it was me against the two. I crowded my victim down against the saddle with my left hand--Lord! how he squawked!--and drew my gun with the right. ”Take either way that suits you,” says I. The bucko didn't sabe English, maybe, but a forty-four gun is easy translated in any language. He chose the other end of the alley.

[Ill.u.s.tration: ”I crowded my victim against the saddle with my left hand”]

The feller that fell got on his feet. He was a good-looking chap, in spite of a big scar across his face and the careless way his white clothes were daubed with red.

”_Mus.h.i.+simas gracias_, Senor,” says he, ”_me alegro mucho de ver a usted_.”

”Don't mention it,” says I. ”I understand a little Spanish, but I speak English. I wouldn't have cut in if they hadn't played it crooked on you--here's your boy, not damaged much, if you want to have it out.”

”I spike Anglish veree splendidlee,” says he, ”I th-thank ju. Eef you weel so kindly han' me dthat man, I keel heem.”

”Holy Christmas!” says I--he asked as cool as he would a light for his cigar--”What do you mean? Just _stick_ him?”

”_Certamente_,” says he, ”he ees no good.”

I chucked my victim as far as I could throw him. ”Run, you fool!” I says, and he scuttled out of that like a jack-rabbit.

He was gone before my friend could start after him. I got the full blast of the disappointment.

”I do not quite understand, Senor,” says he, with his hand on his knife.