Bare Hands

Ayala dropped the mask. He was in possession of the mine. The three white men were virtually prisoners. If they wished to try flight they were welcome, but their domination of the mining property was a thing of the past.

“You see,” announced Ayala, “much as I dislike to do this thing, I have proclaimed what you señores call martial law. Therefore all of the authority here is of the army. The authority which you possess is civil authority, and it is suspended until the army moves on.”

“When will that be?” asked Shaffer.

Ayala shrugged his shoulders.

“I am afraid, my dear señor, we will remain here after you have departed.”

The words were interrupted by a burst of firing from the crest of the hill. Huerta Hidalgo Martinez climbed stiffly into his saddle and galloped to the scene of the battle.

Within an hour the firing ceased.

A rat-like horseman scattered gravel up the trail as he brought a military dispatch to Juan Ayala. That individual then sought out the three white men.

“Congratulations, señores. We have saved your property. The revolutionists were pressing forward, intent, no doubt, upon taking the mine. But our brave men have checked them. The enemy are in retreat.”

Harder’s heavy finger tapped Standish upon the shoulder.

“Somebody comin’,” he said.

The finger pointed up-trail, toward the pass in the mountains. Where the trail wound around the side of the hill a string of horses caught the bright sun and cast black shadows along the glittering hillside.

Standish looked appealingly toward Ayala. The powerful binoculars which Standish had used earlier in the day were now slung over Ayala’s shoulders, a “present” to the secretary of war.

Ayala raised them to his eyes.

“Ah-h-h-h,” he breathed softly.

At length he passed them to Standish.

“The señor would look?” he asked.

Standish raised the glasses, and then swift expressions contorted his face. To the men who had been with him on the mine, watching the expressionless lines of his placid countenance day after day, it seemed that a mask had slipped.

The lips twitched, drained of color.

“It is a señorita?” asked Ayala with purring satisfaction.

Standish turned an agonized face to his two companions.

“It is Rita!” he said in English.

Ayala raised his voice.

“An escort to meet the señorita who rides toward us. She may see the men and take alarm. Perhaps she will hear firing. Escort her, explain there is no cause for alarm. Bring her directly to me. It would be deplorable to have her take alarm and ride back through the mountains.”

Three men scuttled to their horses. Regardless of the progress of battle, Juan Ayala kept a sufficient escort at “headquarters” to cope with any emergency.

Chapter III Ayala Strikes

Standish gave swift instructions to the other two white men.

“Don’t let her have any idea of what’s going on. Try to keep things smooth on the surface until dark, and then we’ll sneak out. Thank God this dark-skinned bandit doesn’t understand English!”

Ayala turned to them, smilingly, bearningly.

“How fortunate that we are here to protect this señorita!”

“Yeah, ain’t it, now,” muttered Harder in English.

There came the sound of hoofs, and the girl swept into the yard, flanked by the armed Mexican horsemen.

“Dad!”

He helped her from the horse.

She gave him her lips, rested for a moment in his arms. Then she turned to the others.

“Vincent! My, but it’s good to see you!”

Shaffer held her hand, looked into her eyes and straightened. It was as though he had taken on new courage. A coward for himself, he was swept out of himself when the safety of the woman he loved was at stake.

The girl turned to Harder.

“Hello, Dan.”

Her eyes dropped before his gaze as one of the huge hands enveloped her little one. The eyes rested upon those clasped hands, and the girl stiffened.

A slow flush came to Dan’s cheek as he watched her eyes, fixed in fascination upon those huge hands of his, hands that seemed almost a deformity.

And the girl tore her eyes away, flushing as one would flush who had been caught staring at the empty sleeve of a cripple.

Standish made a formal presentation in Spanish.

“And this is our friend and benefactor, Señor Don Juan Ayala, secretary of war to the dictator of the Mexican Republic. He has kindly consented to keep an armed guard about our mine, protecting us from the bandits who infest the country.”

The girl gave him her hand, murmuring a greeting in liquid Spanish.

Ayala’s hat swept the ground. The extravagant phrases which poured from his lips represented the superlative of politeness — and hypocrisy.

The girl beamed. It was her second trip to Mexico and she had become accustomed to flowery speech, yet the feminine ever welcomes flattering exaggerations.

“How fortunate you have a guard, dad. I was worried about you. They said I could avoid any bandits by coming in from the other side and going through the mountain pass. I understand the country to the west is given over to marauding bands.”

Her father nodded.