Her father nodded.
“Times are rather unsettled. Whatever possessed you to come?”
Once more the eyes dropped, and once more they sought the huge, hairy hands of Dan Harder.
“I wanted to see if you were all right,” she said.
“Ah, Señorita Standish,” purred Ayala. “You need never worry about the safety of your father. Now that the government knows he has such an estimable and beautiful daughter we will guard his safety as one of the most treasured possessions of the republic.”
She flashed him a smile and then walked toward the ’dobe.
“I’ll wash a little of the dust off,” she said.
Standish held his breath. Would Ayala stop her, explain that the military had taken possession of the ’dobe? But Ayala turned a reassuring smile upon Standish. “You shall see that we are gentlemen, indeed,” he purred.
Dan Harder strolled off toward the canon. From time to time his gaze dropped to his huge hands.
“She looked at ’em as though they belonged to an ape,” he muttered, and his voice was hard with anguish.
A rider was summoned by Ayala, who hurriedly galloped toward the crest of the hill, where the army had dug trenches. Harder watched him go with grim lips. Beyond doubt Huerta Hidalgo Martinez was being apprised of the rich prize which had dropped so unexpectedly into their laps.
For an hour Dan paced in the sandy heat of the canon, his lips moving inarticulately, his great hands clenching and unclenching.
He returned to the camp, rounded the corner of the cook house, and then stopped dead in his tracks.
Rita’s voice had come to his ears, the tail end of a sentence:
“—and then I saw those awful hands. Frankly, I had come to tell him I loved him. I was going to accept his proposal. It was such a beautiful letter, dad. And then I saw his hands — ugh!”
Dan Harder turned and walked softly away. He had not meant to eavesdrop. So it was as he felt? The girl’s sensitive soul had turned in disgust from those hands. While he had been gone, she had, to some extent, forgotten them. His letter had appealed to her.
And then she had seen the hands. Her eyes had surveyed those great hands with something that was almost horror.
He sighed, and found Juan Ayala regarding him through half-closed lids. His expression was that of a rattlesnake that is gathering his scaly body into rustling coils.
The shadows lengthened. The breeze turned and blew up the draws, became hot as the breath from an oven. Rita Standish divided her time between Juan Ayala and Vincent Shaffer. As time passed, Shaffer regained much of his composure. He reached the conclusion that the climax had been reached, that there would be no further trouble. Gradually he began to accept Ayala at his face value.
Couriers rode back and forth between the hidden army and the secretary of war. The Wolf did not appear.
Ayala received a message from a rider, glanced at the setting sun and summoned Vincent Shaffer into the ’dobe house.
Shaffer did not emerge.
A messenger stated Ayala’s desires to Dan Harder. The fox-faced secretary of war desired the presence of the gringo with the hairy hands.
Dan looked about him, saw Rita chatting with her father, lively, vivacious. He glanced at the setting sun, squared his shoulders and entered the ’dobe.
The door swung shut.
Juan Ayala regarded him with the face of a vicious fox.
“You wish to take me to pieces?” he asked, in excellent English.
A gun butt whizzed through the air, swung by one of the sandaled soldiers. Juan Ayala raised the revolver that was in his slender hand.
Dan Harder took the blow of the rifle butt on the shoulder. By the simple expedient of raising his huge shoulder, he had protected his temple. His great hands snatched for the gun, jerked it from the hands of the astonished soldier.
The muzzle was thrust forward, into the pit of Ayala’s stomach. The slender secretary of war wheezed his surprise as the wind was forced from his lungs. His paralyzed diaphragm refused to function. His mouth popped open as he gasped for air.
The hairy hands caught the outstretched arm of the soldier that had swung the gun. There came the sickening sound of crunching bone.
The soldier was hurled through the air, struck his head on the side of the battered desk and slumped to the floor.
Another soldier thrust a glittering bayonet. Harder avoided it by a swift side thrust of his body.
His two arms stretched out. One great hand caught the secretary of war by the neck. The other closed about the shoulder of the man who had thrust the bayonet.
Upon the floor, bound, gagged, Vincent Shaffer watched the action with drawn, white face and great, appealing eyes.
The gun butt of the third soldier crashed downward while Harder was spread out between the two men, both of his great hands occupied. The sound of the thud upon his skull sounded like a stone hitting a hollow tree trunk.
Dan Harder slumped to the floor.
Juan Ayala regained his wind enough to breathe. He licked his pale lips, gasped again and then stammered.
“The man is a devil. The Wolf will see that he does not die easily. Save him with great care. When he regains consciousness we will show him how we kill men in Mexico. Perhaps we will thrust a pointed stake through his body and leave him sitting, spitted in the sun for the flies and the ants.”
Vincent Shaffer gave a great shudder.
Busy hands knotted ropes about the arms and legs of the unconscious fighter.
“Tie him with double ropes,” instructed Ayala. “He has the strength of an ape in those hairy hands.”
Shaffer rolled over, his gagged mouth sought to formulate words in vain. In his mind there echoed and reechoed the knowledge that doomed them all.
“He understands English. He understands English. He understands English,” ran through his brain in sickening monotony. He tried to banish the thought, tried to keep the words from ringing in his brain, but in vain.
Something thudded against him — the unconscious body of Dan Harder.
Juan Ayala ran deft fingers over his uniform, adjusting it, making sure there was no dust clinging to it. He barked a command to the ragged soldiers who watched the prisoners, and then stepped out into the soft light of the early dusk.
“Señor, I am sorry that your help have left and that there is no food for yourself and the señorita. Huerta Hidalgo Martinez has conveyed his compliments and requests that you and the señorita join him for the evening meal.
“We will probably concentrate our force at the crest of the hill where we can be better guarded against any surprise attack during the night. A tent will be placed for the señor and the señorita. Your safety will be assured by armed sentries who will stand before the door of the tent.
“Your companions have strolled on down the trail. I have ordered horses for you.”
The girl’s eyes danced.
“Armed sentries, a soldier’s camp! Won’t that be fun! Come on, dad. I’m anxious to meet this famous general.”
Standish hesitated. Should he whisper to his daughter that this general was more generally known under the title of the Wolf? Then she would know, be aware of her danger. But would it do any good?
Perhaps, after all, it would be better to let the girl continue to believe she was an honored guest instead of a prisoner. Her attitude of ingenuous innocence was all that could save her now. The time for resistance had passed. But there would be no moon. Perhaps after dark—
He looked around for his two companions.
A sigh of relief escaped his lips when he saw they had vanished. He could understand how they would prefer to “stroll” down to the encampment. In the gathering dusk they would slip off the trail, lie in wait, try to effect some rescue under cover of the darkness.