The Argosy, Vol. 83 No. 1 — page 107: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

DROPPING INTO MEXICO. The girl obeyed; Jones went into the room and approached the window cau- tiously. The roof concealed the floor of the veranda below, but on the ground be- fore the house were a group of men. One held a torch, which lighted up the little company. There were six or. seven; the gold braid on their jackets glistened in the rays of the flickering flame. For a moment the soldier watched them. He saw that they were talking ex- citedly, and one, evidently a leader, was gesticulating with great violence. Stepping back a pace Jones dropped the barrel of the rifle across the window-sill and aimed carefully. With the spurt of flame from the muzzle of the weapon the Mexican staggered and went down at the feet of his companions. Before the echo of the report had died Jones dropped the rifle and slammed to the heavy shutter, throwing the bolt in place. “Now the other windows,” said he terse- ly, “but keep out of line of them!” There were four other openings in the front of the building; these he closed, and then entered the other rooms, bolting each shutter in place. “Ts there a veranda on this side; any roof on which they could climb?” he asked. “No,” said the girl, “but there is a shed at the farther end of the hall, and—” A fusillade of shots came from outside; a crash, a cry from the hall below. Then a single report which roared through the house like the explosion of a bomb. “Stay here!” Jones shouted, and was in the hall making for the stairs, cocking his rifle as he ran. The light from the front room below re- vealed the situation which he feared. The rear door was open and across its threshold surged a crowd of men. The old Indian lay stretched upon the floor, his limbs twitching convulsively. His back to the light, blocking the en- trance to the door of the front room, Jones raised his rifle and fired rapidly. A thick haze of pungent smoke filled the hall; sev- eral shots blazed out from the group in the doorway. ‘bee 97 Jones dropped the useless rifle and emptied the chambers of his revolver at the surging mass of dark faces. Behind him a rifle cracked spitefully; it was Rob- inson pumping fresh shells into the maga- zine. The fusillade cleared the doorway; the invaders seemed to melt away, swept back- ward by the storm of bullets. The haze of smoke began to clear, and on the ground outside several figures lay motionless; a wounded bandit, groaning, writhed on the threshold. “Staop!’* cred JORES; = ‘save your ammu- nition!” He went down the hall, staggering slightly, rolled the wounded Mexican out- side and closed the door. “The bolt is broken; bring something here!” he called. Then he swayed, caught at the wall and leaned against it heavily. Robinson was it his side; behind, Senor Bilbao peered at them anxiously. “You are hit?” the reporter asked ex- citedly. ‘“Ves,”? answered Jones; “it got me in the shoulder.” He straightened up, teeth set. “Where is the boy?” Bilbao called out in Spanish. From somewhere the young Mexican appeared, white faced, shaking. “You did not fire,” said Jones sternly; “when they broke in the door you ran away, and—your father is a brave man.” The boy began to whimper; he was only sixteen, and feared the Villistas as peng devils without mercy. “You are not really a coward, and you have seen how these bandits run before our fire. Do you fancy they will show you mercy when the time comes for a reckon- ing? We must hold them off until your father returns with the soldiers from the garrison; you have a rifle; a Mexican should know how to use it.” The boy straightened his shoulders. “T am not a coward, senor,” said he stoutly. “Then go up- -stairs, where the senorita is guarding the windows: will we tell your father that a girl was braver than you?” Gomichdooks (C@)