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Updated: June 22, 2025
Cabenza found it necessary to work off his excitement upon the prisoners. He stood on tiptoe, holding the window bars in his hands, and jeered at the men within. "Ho, ho, Gringos! May the devil fly away with you! Food for powder food for powder! Some fine morning the general will give orders and we shall bury you in the sand by the river. Not so?" he scoffed in his own language.
Inside of five minutes Cabenza had gathered information as follows: Adam Holcomb was a soldier of fortune who had fought all over South America and Mexico. During the Spanish War he had been a Rough Rider in Cuba and later had been a volunteer officer in the Philippines. The army routine had no attraction for him. What he liked was actual fighting.
The captain reached for his hat and led the way down the street. Cabenza followed him, a step or two in the rear. They reached headquarters just as Pasquale lifted Ruth from the saddle. He held her for a moment in his strong arms and grinned down at her frightened, fascinated eyes. "Adios, chatita!" he murmured, his little eyes dancing with triumph.
This done, he sauntered back to the little town and down the adobe street. A horseman cantered up to the headquarters of the general just as Pasquale stepped out with Culvera. The latter snapped his fingers toward Cabenza and that trooper ran forward. "Hold the horse," ordered the officer in Mexican. Cabenza relieved the messenger, who stepped forward and delivered what had been given him to say.
It was a product of the spirit, a moral force to be reckoned with. It helped to make impossible things easy of accomplishment. The panic of Cabenza vanished as soon as he was out of sight of the guards. As he turned down toward the sandy river-bed a little smile lay in his eyes.
About eighteen, maybe," supplemented Cabenza, in Mexican, of course. "A woman from the street, I reckon. And if you look into it you'll find she's here of her own free will." Steve was now stropping a razor. His back was toward the officer, but without turning he could see him by looking in the glass. "You've got the wrong steer, captain.
Slyly he looked around to see that they were alone and drew from his pocket the bottle. "Ho, compañero! Behold what I have. Gringo whiskey better far than mescal," he cried softly as he handed the treasure to one of the guards. The man glanced around hurriedly, even as had Cabenza, then tilted the mouth of the bottle over his lips and let a long stiff drink gurgle down his throat.
Behind him, a few feet away, Cabenza was cleaning a rifle for his new master. "I wanta talk to you about something, Captain Holcomb," announced the film actor. The soldier looked at him steadily. "Go to it," he ordered curtly. "This is private business." Holcomb did not turn his head or raise his voice. "Pedro, vamos."
Two guards sat outside in front of the door and gossiped. Cabenza, moved apparently by a desire for companionship, indifferently drifted toward them. He sat down. Presently he produced a bottle furtively. All three drank, to good health, to the success of the revolution, a third time to the day when they should march, victorious into the great city in the south. They became exhilarated.
"Gold. How far would you go to earn that much?" "A long way, señor." Harrison caught him by the wrist with a grip that drove the blood back. "Listen, Cabenza. Would you go as far as the camp of Garcia Farrugia?" The close-gripped, salient jaw was thrust forward. Black eyes blazed from a set, snarling face.
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