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Updated: June 1, 2025
First off, I said to myself I was loco and it only happened that way. But the second time which was when we rode to the Ortez ranch I seen her again. Then when we was driftin' along by that cactus over to Sanborn I come right clost to tellin' you that I seen her not like I kin see you, but kind of inside and I knowed that somethin' was a-comin' wrong.
We've done brave work this glorious day, my lads, and a merry ending we'll have before the night is gone." Everywhere in the courtyard were evidences of bloody conflict. Singly, in groups and in hideous crimson-splashed piles lay Catholics and Huguenots together, peaceful enough in death. "By my faith, and a gallant set of gentlemen we have here," laughed Ortez. "What think you, brother mine?"
For an hour or more he walked about, listening casually to this or that bit of conversation. Occasionally he heard Mexicans discussing the Ortez robbery. Donovan's name, Waring's own name, Vaca's, and even Ramon's were mentioned. It seemed strange to him that news should breed so fast. Few knew that he had returned.
Some thirty riders from the T-Bar-T, the Blue Range, and the Concho swept through the gateway and began shooting at the Ortez vaqueros. Arguilla saw that his own plan had gone glimmering. Ortez had in some way played the traitor. Moreover, they were all on American territory. The herd had stampeded and scattered. In the fading light Arguilla saw one after another of the Ortez vaqueros go down.
Her cry was full of relief. "To-morrow morning we'll start early," he laughed. "Noon will get us to the railroad if Ortez was right about distances, and then home and the last clearing-up before we start life." The matter was settled. Claire lay down in her blankets happily. She did not sleep at once, however.
She could furnish the eyes for an investigation of their situation inland, but her ankle had been sprained in the wreck and she was unable to walk. When months after, just as they had reached the limit of human endurance what with hunger, the cold, and privation they stumbled into the cabin of Philip Ortez.
Stepping to his horse, he took two small canvas sacks from his saddle-pockets. Still the lieutenant hesitated. He had had no instructions covering such a contingency. "I await your receipt, señor," said Ortez as he handed the money to Pete. Pete drew a folded slip of paper from his pocket and gave it quickly to Ortez. "Brent'll push the cattle through muy pronto."
Although his sympathies were with his own people, Ortez felt that such treachery was too black, even for a leader of guerillas. He realized that the first word of warning to Brent would mean his own doom and the death of his men in the battle which would follow, for he knew the Gringo cowboys would fight to the last man. Against this he weighed the probability of a fight if he did not speak.
The thoroughbreds reached out into that long, tireless running stride that brought their riders nearer and nearer to the Ortez rancho and the Mexican agent of the guerilla captain whose troops were so sadly in need of beef. On either side of a faint trail rose the dreary, angling grotesques of the cactus, and the dried and dead stalks of the soapweed.
Ramon glanced up and down the street. "The police they have asked me where is my Uncle José. I have told them that I do not know. The police they asked me that." "Well?" "But it is not that why I come. They told me to go to my home. It was when I was in the prison that the policia talked in the telephone. He spoke your name and the name of Señor Bill Donovan of the Ortez Mine.
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