The Argosy, Vol. 83 No. 1 — page 108: what you’re looking at

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

98 THE Jones’s face was white, beads of per- spiration were gathering on his forehead. Across his left hand a tiny stream of blood began to trickle from the bullet hole in his upper arm. The Mexican boy, rifle in hand, went up the stairs; Jones, leaning against the wall, swaying dizzily, clutched Robinson’s arm tightly. “Take me to the front room—and guard this door. There are three of us, and the senorita and the boy up-stairs,” said he faintly. With an effort, conquering the nausea, he went down the hall into the front room, felt blindly for a chair and sank into it. “Tt is through the shoulder; have you any brandy handy?” he murmured, and gritted his teeth, fighting off the sickening dizziness. Senor Bilbao opened a closet and poured out a glassful from a squat bottle. Jones swallowed the fiery liquor, coughed and smiled faintly. “Rip up the sleeve and get a bandage; if we can stop the bleeding—” his voice trailed off into an incoherent murmur. The senor hesitated; he was an old man, and his hands trembled. But with his knife he ripped up the sleeve of the canvas jacket. An ugly hole, no larger than the end of a lead pencil, showed in the fleshy part of the wounded man’s arm below the shoul- der. Senor Bilbao had been a Mexican senator, he was a diplomat par excellence, but he felt his helplessness in the present crisis. “Pepita!”’ he called—‘‘Pepita!” The girl appeared in the doorway. She saw her father standing irresolute beside the sagging figure. She saw the bared arm down which blood was trickling, the bullet hole, and the white face of the wounded American. Quickly she crossed the room; Jones smiled faintly. “Tt is nothing,” said he, and lurched forward in the chair. Had she not caught him he would have fallen. ‘(A bandage! Why are you doing noth- ARGOSY. ing?”’ she cried. Never before had she spoken so sharply to her father. Bilbao looked helplessly around the room. The girl uttered an exclamation; unblushingly she loosened the band of her linen petticoat, letting the garment slip to the floor. She tore it into strips and, when there was enough, bound the wound tightly. A shot crashed outside, and another bul- let hole was registered in the panel of the heavy door. The girl went on calmly with her task, bandaging the wounded arm from shoulder to elbow. The old Mexican, obeying a gesture, poured out another drink of brandy and held the glass to Jones’s lips. But he did not drink; his head rested heavily against the girl’s shoulder. His eyes were closed; he had drifted off into momentary uncon- sciousness. A volley of shots crashed out again. “We are lost!” cried the old Mexican. His face was whiter than that of the wounded man. “We will trust in God, mia padre—in God and these brave Americans,” the girl answered calmly. Jones opened his eyes. Subconscious, he had heard the shots and his brain began to work again. ‘““Give me the rifle, and—go up-stairs— it is safer there, senorita!” said he faintly. He got upon his feet, swaying dizzily, went to the table and began mechanically to thrust shells into the empty magazine. They saw him grit his teeth with pain, but he filled the magazine. ‘“‘Are you there, Robinson?” he called. ‘““Yes,”’ answered the reporter from the hall. “Guard the door—we can keep them * off on this side!” muttered Jones dizzily. The girl took the rifle from his hand. “Give him the brandy!” she ordered sharply. Jones drank, steadying himself against the table. “Go up-stairs, and watch the windows there!’’ she commanded. Senor Bilbao obeyed, leaving the two in Gomichdooks (C@