"I fear it's too late now. I should have done that last night.
You see, we're over the line--"
"Are we in Mexican territory now?" queried Gale, sharply.
"I guess yes, old boy. That's what complicates it. Rojas and his rebels have Casita in their hands. But Rojas without his rebels would be able to stop me, get the girl, and make for his mountain haunts. If Mercedes is really watched--if her identity is known, which I am sure is the case--we couldn't get far from this house before I'd be knifed and she seized."
"Good Heavens! Thorne, can that sort of thing happen less than a stone's throw from the United States line?" asked Gale, incredulously.
"It can happen, and don't you forget it. You don't seem to realize the power these guerrilla leaders, these rebel captains, and particularly these bandits, exercise over the mass of Mexicans.
A bandit is a man of honor in Mexico. He is feared, envied, loved.
In the hearts of the people he stands next to the national idol--the bull-fighter, the matador. The race has a wild, barbarian, bloody strain. Take Quinteros, for instance. He was a peon, a slave.
He became a famous bandit. At the outbreak of the revolution he proclaimed himself a leader, and with a band of followers he devastated whole counties. The opposition to federal forces was only a blind to rob and riot and carry off women. The motto of this man and his followers was: 'Let us enjoy ourselves while we may!'
"There are other bandits besides Quinteros, not so famous or such great leaders, but just as bloodthirsty. I've seen Rojas. He's a handsome, bold sneering devil, vainer than any peacock. He decks himself in gold lace and sliver trappings, in all the finery he can steal. He was one of the rebels who helped sack Sinaloa and carry off half a million in money and valuables. Rojas spends gold like he spills blood. But he is chiefly famous for abducting women. the peon girls consider it an honor to be ridden off with. Rojas has shown a penchant for girls of the better class."
Thorne wiped the perspiration from his pale face and bent a dark gaze out of the window before he resumed his talk.
"Consider what the position of Mercedes really is. I can't get any help from our side of the line. If so, I don't know where.
The population on that side is mostly Mexican, absolutely in sympathy with whatever actuates those on this side. The whole caboodle of Greasers on both sides belong to the class in sympathy with the rebels, the class that secretly respects men like Rojas, and hates an aristocrat like Mercedes. They would conspire to throw her into his power. Rojas can turn all the hidden underground influences to his ends. Unless I thwart him he'll get Mercedes as easily as he can light a cigarette. But I'll kill him or some of his gang or her before I let him get her. . . . This is the situation, old friend. I've little time to spare. I face arrest for desertion. Rojas is in town.
I think I was followed to this hotel. The priest has betrayed me or has been stopped. Mercedes is here alone, waiting, absolutely dependent upon me to save her from--from....She's the sweetest, loveliest girl!...In a few moments--sooner or later there'll be hell here! ****, are you with me?"
**** Gale drew a long, deep breath. A coldness, a lethargy, an indifference that had weighed upon him for months had passed out of his being. On the instant he could not speak, but his hand closed powerfully upon his friend's. Thorne's face changed wonderfully, the distress, the fear, the appeal all vanishing in a smile of passionate gratefulness.
Then ****'s gaze, attracted by some slight sound, shot over his friend's shoulder to see a face at the window--a handsome, bold, sneering face, with glittering dark eyes that flashed in sinister intentness.
**** stiffened in his seat. Thorne, with sudden clenching of hands, wheeled toward the window.
"Rojas!" he whispered.