Gringo is reinventing the process of managing your car by leveraging technology and data to transform painful and bureaucratic processes into simple and delightful experiences. We welcome open-minded people from all backgrounds who seek the opportunity to make an impact on one of the largest industries in Brazil. If you are driven by huge challenges and enjoy tackling problems, we are looking forward to meeting you.

Gringo

“YOU ARE MY GIRL!”

EDDIE MAKES GOOD

AN INDIAN'S TREACHERY

BILLY TO THE RESCUE

BILLY CRACKS A SAFE

The Mucker by Edgar Rice Burroughs, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here . BARBARA IN MEXICO BARBARA IN MEXICO THE manager of El Orobo Rancho was an American named Grayson. He was a tall, wiry man whose education had been acquired principally in the cow camps of Texas, where, among other things one does NOT learn to love nor trust a greaser. As a result of this early training Grayson was peculiarly unfitted in some respects to manage an American ranch in Mexico; but he was a just man, and so if his vaqueros did not love him, they at least respected him, and everyone who was or possessed the latent characteristics of a wrongdoer feared him. Perhaps it is not fair to say that Grayson was in any way unfitted for the position he held, since as a matter of fact he was an ideal ranch foreman, and, if the truth be known, the simple fact that he was a gringo would have been sufficient to have won him the hatred of the Mexicans who worked under him—not in the course of their everyday relations; but when the fires of racial animosity were fanned to flame by some untoward incident upon either side of the border. Today Grayson was particularly rabid. The more so because he could not vent his anger upon the cause of it, who was no less a person than his boss. It seemed incredible to Grayson that any man of intelligence could have conceived and then carried out the fool thing which the boss had just done, which was to have come from the safety of New York City to the hazards of warring Mexico, bringing—and this was the worst feature of it—his daughter with him. And at such a time! Scarce a day passed without its rumors or reports of new affronts and even atrocities being perpetrated upon American residents of Mexico. Each day, too, the gravity of these acts increased. From mere insult they had run of late to assault and even to murder. Nor was the end in sight. Pesita had openly sworn to rid Mexico of the gringo—to kill on sight every American who fell into his hands. And what could Grayson do in case of a determined attack upon the rancho? It is true he had a hundred men—laborers and vaqueros, but scarce a dozen of these were Americans, and the rest would, almost without exception, follow the inclinations of consanguinity in case of trouble. To add to Grayson's irritability he had just lost his bookkeeper, and if there was one thing more than any other that Grayson hated it was pen and ink. The youth had been a “lunger” from Iowa, a fairly nice little chap, and entirely suited to his duties under any other circumstances than those which prevailed in Mexico at that time. He was in mortal terror of his life every moment that he was awake, and at last had given in to the urge of cowardice and resigned. The day previous he had been bundled into a buckboard and driven over to the Mexican Central which, at that time, still was operating trains—occasionally—between Chihuahua and Juarez. His mind filled with these unpleasant thoughts, Grayson sat at his desk in the office of the ranch trying to unravel the riddle of a balance sheet which would not balance. Mixed with the blue of the smoke from his briar was the deeper azure of a spirited monologue in which Grayson was engaged. A girl was passing the building at the moment. At her side walked a gray-haired man—one of those men whom you just naturally fit into a mental picture of a director's meeting somewhere along Wall Street. “Sich langwidge!” cried the girl, with a laugh, covering her ears with her palms. The man at her side smiled. “I can't say that I blame him much, Barbara,” he replied. “It was a very foolish thing for me to bring you down here at this time. I can't understand what ever possessed me to do it.” “Don't blame yourself, dear,” remonstrated the girl, “when it was all my fault. I begged and begged and begged until you had to consent, and I'm not sorry either—if nothing happens to you because of our coming. I couldn't stay in New York another minute. Everyone was so snoopy, and I could just tell that they were dying to ask questions about Billy and me.” “I can't get it through my head yet, Barbara,” said the man, “why in the world you broke with Billy Mallory. He's one of the finest young men in New York City today—just my ideal of the sort of man I'd like my only daughter to marry.” “I tried, Papa,” said the girl in a low voice; “but I couldn't—I just couldn't.” “Was it because—” the man stopped abruptly. “Well, never mind dear, I shan't be snoopy too. Here now, you run along and do some snooping yourself about the ranch. I want to stop in and have a talk with Grayson.” Down by one of the corrals where three men were busily engaged in attempting to persuade an unbroken pony that a spade bit is a pleasant thing to wear in one's mouth, Barbara found a seat upon a wagon box which commanded an excellent view of the entertainment going on within the corral. As she sat there experiencing a combination of admiration for the agility and courage of the men and pity for the horse the tones of a pleasant masculine voice broke in upon her thoughts. “Out there somewhere!” says I to me.  “By Gosh, I guess, thats poetry!” “Out there somewhere—Penelope—with kisses on her mouth!” And then, thinks I, “O college guy! your talk it gets me in the eye, The north is creeping in the air, the birds are flying south.” Barbara swung around to view the poet. She saw a slender man astride a fagged Mexican pony. A ragged coat and ragged trousers covered the man's nakedness. Indian moccasins protected his feet, while a torn and shapeless felt hat sat upon his well-shaped head. AMERICAN was written all over him. No one could have imagined him anything else. Apparently he was a tramp as well—his apparel proclaimed him that; but there were two discordant notes in the otherwise harmonious ensemble of your typical bo. He was clean shaven and he rode a pony. He rode erect, too, with the easy seat of an army officer. At sight of the girl he raised his battered hat and swept it low to his pony's shoulder as he bent in a profound bow. “I seek the majordomo, senorita,” he said. “Mr. Grayson is up at the office, that little building to the left of the ranchhouse,” replied the girl, pointing. The newcomer had addressed her in Spanish, and as he heard her reply, in pure and liquid English, his eyes widened a trifle; but the familiar smile with which he had greeted her left his face, and his parting bow was much more dignified though no less profound than its predecessor. And you, my sweet Penelope, out there somewhere you wait for me, With buds of roses in your hair and kisses on your mouth. Grayson and his employer both looked up as the words of Knibbs' poem floated in to them through the open window. “I wonder where that blew in from,” remarked Grayson, as his eyes discovered Bridge astride the tired pony, looking at him through the window. A polite smile touched the stranger's lips as his eyes met Grayson's, and then wandered past him to the imposing figure of the Easterner. “Good evening, gentlemen,” said Bridge. “Evenin',” snapped Grayson. “Go over to the cookhouse and the Chink'll give you something to eat. Turn your pony in the lower pasture. Smith'll show you where to bunk tonight, an' you kin hev your breakfast in the mornin'. S'long!” The ranch superintendent turned back to the paper in his hand which he had been discussing with his employer at the moment of the interruption. He had volleyed his instructions at Bridge as though pouring a rain of lead from a machine gun, and now that he had said what he had to say the incident was closed in so far as he was concerned. The hospitality of the Southwest permitted no stranger to be turned away without food and a night's lodging. Grayson having arranged for these felt that he had done all that might be expected of a host, especially when the uninvited guest was so obviously a hobo and doubtless a horse thief as well, for who ever knew a hobo to own a horse? Bridge continued to sit where he had reined in his pony. He was looking at Grayson with what the discerning boss judged to be politely concealed enjoyment. “Possibly,” suggested the boss in a whisper to his aide, “the man has business with you. You did not ask him, and I am sure that he said nothing about wishing a meal or a place to sleep.” “Huh?” grunted Grayson, and then to Bridge, “Well, what the devil DO you want?” “A job,” replied Bridge, “or, to be more explicit, I need a job—far be it from me to WISH one.” The Easterner smiled. Grayson looked a bit mystified—and irritated. “Well, I hain't got none,” he snapped. “We don't need nobody now unless it might be a good puncher—one who can rope and ride.” “I can ride,” replied Bridge, “as is evidenced by the fact that you now see me astride a horse.” “I said RIDE,” said Grayson. “Any fool can SIT on a horse. NO, I hain't got nothin', an' I'm busy now. Hold on!” he exclaimed as though seized by a sudden inspiration. He looked sharply at Bridge for a moment and then shook his head sadly. “No, I'm afraid you couldn't do it—a guy's got to be eddicated for the job I got in mind.” “Washing dishes?” suggested Bridge. Grayson ignored the playfulness of the other's question. “Keepin' books,” he explained. There was a finality in his tone which said: “As you, of course, cannot keep books the interview is now over. Get out!” “I could try,” said Bridge. “I can read and write, you know. Let me try.” Bridge wanted money for the trip to Rio, and, too, he wanted to stay in the country until Billy was ready to leave. “Savvy Spanish?” asked Grayson. “I read and write it better than I speak it,” said Bridge, “though I do the latter well enough to get along anywhere that it is spoken.” Grayson wanted a bookkeeper worse than he could ever recall having wanted anything before in all his life. His better judgment told him that it was the height of idiocy to employ a ragged bum as a bookkeeper; but the bum was at least as much of a hope to him as is a straw to a drowning man, and so Grayson clutched at him. “Go an' turn your cayuse in an' then come back here,” he directed, “an' I'll give you a tryout.” “Thanks,” said Bridge, and rode off in the direction of the pasture gate. “'Fraid he won't never do,” said Grayson, ruefully, after Bridge had passed out of earshot. “I rather imagine that he will,” said the boss. “He is an educated man, Grayson—you can tell that from his English, which is excellent. He's probably one of the great army of down-and-outers. The world is full of them—poor devils. Give him a chance, Grayson, and anyway he adds another American to our force, and each one counts.” “Yes, that's right; but I hope you won't need 'em before you an' Miss Barbara go,” said Grayson. “I hope not, Grayson; but one can never tell with conditions here such as they are. Have you any hope that you will be able to obtain a safe conduct for us from General Villa?” “Oh, Villa'll give us the paper all right,” said Grayson; “but it won't do us no good unless we don't meet nobody but Villa's men on the way out. This here Pesita's the critter I'm leery of. He's got it in for all Americans, and especially for El Orobo Rancho. You know we beat off a raid of his about six months ago—killed half a dozen of his men, an' he won't never forgive that. Villa can't spare a big enough force to give us safe escort to the border and he can't assure the safety of the train service. It looks mighty bad, sir—I don't see what in hell you came for.” “Neither do I, Grayson,” agreed the boss; “but I'm here and we've got to make the best of it. All this may blow over—it has before—and we'll laugh at our fears in a few weeks.” “This thing that's happenin' now won't never blow over 'til the stars and stripes blow over Chihuahua,” said Grayson with finality. A few moments later Bridge returned to the office, having unsaddled his pony and turned it into the pasture. “What's your name?” asked Grayson, preparing to enter it in his time book. “Bridge,” replied the new bookkeeper. “'Nitials,” snapped Grayson. Bridge hesitated. “Oh, put me down as L. Bridge,” he said. “Where from?” asked the ranch foreman. “El Orobo Rancho,” answered Bridge. Grayson shot a quick glance at the man. The answer confirmed his suspicions that the stranger was probably a horse thief, which, in Grayson's estimation, was the worst thing a man could be. “Where did you get that pony you come in on?” he demanded. “I ain't sayin' nothin' of course, but I jest want to tell you that we ain't got no use for horse thieves here.” The Easterner, who had been a listener, was shocked by the brutality of Grayson's speech; but Bridge only laughed. “If you must know,” he said, “I never bought that horse, an' the man he belonged to didn't give him to me. I just took him.” “You got your nerve,” growled Grayson. “I guess you better git out. We don't want no horse thieves here.” “Wait,” interposed the boss. “This man doesn't act like a horse thief. A horse thief, I should imagine, would scarcely admit his guilt. Let's have his story before we judge him.” “All right,” said Grayson; “but he's just admitted he stole the horse.” Bridge turned to the boss. “Thanks,” he said; “but really I did steal the horse.” Grayson made a gesture which said: “See, I told you so.” “It was like this,” went on Bridge. “The gentleman who owned the horse, together with some of his friends, had been shooting at me and my friends. When it was all over there was no one left to inform us who were the legal heirs of the late owners of this and several other horses which were left upon our hands, so I borrowed this one. The law would say, doubtless, that I had stolen it; but I am perfectly willing to return it to its rightful owners if someone will find them for me.” “You been in a scrap?” asked Grayson. “Who with?” “A party of Pesita's men,” replied Bridge. “When?” “Yesterday.” “You see they are working pretty close,” said Grayson, to his employer, and then to Bridge: “Well, if you took that cayuse from one of Pesita's bunch you can't call that stealin'. Your room's in there, back of the office, an' you'll find some clothes there that the last man forgot to take with him. You ken have 'em, an' from the looks o' yourn you need 'em.” “Thank you,” replied Bridge. “My clothes are a bit rusty. I shall have to speak to James about them,” and he passed through into the little bedroom off the office, and closed the door behind him. “James?” grunted Grayson. “Who the devil does he mean by James? I hain't seen but one of 'em.” The boss was laughing quietly. “The man's a character,” he said. “He'll be worth all you pay him—if you can appreciate him, which I doubt, Grayson.” “I ken appreciate him if he ken keep books,” replied Grayson. “That's all I ask of him.” When Bridge emerged from the bedroom he was clothed in white duck trousers, a soft shirt, and a pair of tennis shoes, and such a change had they wrought in his appearance that neither Grayson nor his employer would have known him had they not seen him come from the room into which they had sent him to make the exchange of clothing. “Feel better?” asked the boss, smiling. “Clothes are but an incident with me,” replied Bridge. “I wear them because it is easier to do so than it would be to dodge the weather and the police. Whatever I may have upon my back affects in no way what I have within my head. No, I cannot say that I feel any better, since these clothes are not as comfortable as my old ones. However if it pleases Mr. Grayson that I should wear a pink kimono while working for him I shall gladly wear a pink kimono. What shall I do first, sir?” The question was directed toward Grayson. “Sit down here an' see what you ken make of this bunch of trouble,” replied the foreman. “I'll talk with you again this evenin'.” As Grayson and his employer quitted the office and walked together toward the corrals the latter's brow was corrugated by thought and his facial expression that of one who labors to fasten upon a baffling and illusive recollection. “It beats all, Grayson,” he said presently; “but I am sure that I have known this new bookkeeper of yours before. The moment he came out of that room dressed like a human being I knew that I had known him; but for the life of me I can't place him. I should be willing to wager considerable, however, that his name is not Bridge.” “S'pect you're right,” assented Grayson. “He's probably one o' them eastern dude bank clerks what's gone wrong and come down here to hide. Mighty fine place to hide jest now, too. “And say, speakin' of banks,” he went on, “what'll I do 'bout sendin' over to Cuivaca fer the pay tomorrow. Next day's pay day. I don't like to send this here bum, I can't trust a greaser no better, an' I can't spare none of my white men thet I ken trust.” “Send him with a couple of the most trustworthy Mexicans you have,” suggested the boss. “There ain't no sich critter,” replied Grayson; “but I guess that's the best I ken do. I'll send him along with Tony an' Benito—they hate each other too much to frame up anything together, an' they both hate a gringo. I reckon they'll hev a lovely trip.” “But they'll get back with the money, eh?” queried the boss. “If Pesita don't get 'em,” replied Grayson. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Edgar Rice Burroughs (1995). The Mucker. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved October 2022 https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/331/pg331-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org , located at https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html.

BARBARA IN MEXICO

The Mucker by Edgar Rice Burroughs, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here . IN PESITA'S CAMP IN PESITA'S CAMP PESITA was a short, stocky man with a large, dark mustache. He attired himself after his own ideas of what should constitute the uniform of a general—ideas more or less influenced and modified by the chance and caprice of fortune. At the moment that Billy, Bridge, and Miguel were dragged into his presence his torso was enwrapped in a once resplendent coat covered with yards of gold braid. Upon his shoulders were brass epaulets such as are connected only in one's mind with the ancient chorus ladies of the light operas of fifteen or twenty years ago. Upon his legs were some rusty and ragged overalls. His feet were bare. He scowled ferociously at the prisoners while his lieutenant narrated the thrilling facts of their capture—thrilling by embellishment. “You are Americanos?” he asked of Bridge and Billy. Both agreed that they were. Then Pesita turned toward Miguel. “Where is Villa?” he asked. “How should I know, my general?” parried Miguel. “Who am I—a poor man with a tiny rancho—to know of the movements of the great ones of the earth? I did not even know where was the great General Pesita until now I am brought into his gracious presence, to throw myself at his feet and implore that I be permitted to serve him in even the meanest of capacities.” Pesita appeared not to hear what Miguel had said. He turned his shoulder toward the man, and addressed Billy in broken English. “You were on your way to El Orobo Rancho, eh? Are you acquainted there?” he asked. Billy replied that they were not—merely looking for employment upon an American-owned ranch or in an American mine. “Why did you leave your own country?” asked Pesita. “What do you want here in Mexico?” “Well, ol' top,” replied Billy, “you see de birds was flyin' south an' winter was in de air, an a fat-head dick from Chi was on me trail—so I ducks.” “Ducks?” queried Pesita, mystified. “Ah, the ducks—they fly south, I see.” “Naw, you poor simp—I blows,” explained Billy. “Ah, yes,” agreed Pesita, not wishing to admit any ignorance of plain American even before a despised gringo. “But the large-faced dick—what might that be? I have spend much time in the States, but I do not know that.” “I said 'fat-head dick'—dat's a fly cop,” Billy elucidated. “It is he then that is the bird.” Pesita beamed at this evidence of his own sagacity. “He fly.” “Flannagan ain't no bird—Flannagan's a dub.” Bridge came to the rescue. “My erudite friend means,” he explained, “that the police chased him out of the United States of America.” Pesita raised his eyebrows. All was now clear to him. “But why did he not say so?” he asked. “He tried to,” said Bridge. “He did his best.” “Quit yer kiddin',” admonished Billy. A bright light suddenly burst upon Pesita. He turned upon Bridge. “Your friend is not then an American?” he asked. “I guessed it. That is why I could not understand him. He speaks the language of the gringo less well even than I. From what country is he?” Billy Byrne would have asserted with some show of asperity that he was nothing if not American; but Bridge was quick to see a possible loophole for escape for his friend in Pesita's belief that Billy was no gringo, and warned the latter to silence by a quick motion of his head. “He's from 'Gran' Avenoo,'” he said. “It is not exactly in Germany; but there are a great many Germans there. My friend is a native, so he don't speak German or English either—they have a language of their own in 'Gran' Avenoo'.” “I see,” said Pesita—“a German colony. I like the Germans—they furnish me with much ammunition and rifles. They are my very good friends. Take Miguel and the gringo away”—this to the soldiers who had brought the prisoners to him—“I will speak further with this man from Granavenoo.” When the others had passed out of hearing Pesita addressed Billy. “I am sorry, senor,” he said, “that you have been put to so much inconvenience. My men could not know that you were not a gringo; but I can make it all right. I will make it all right. You are a big man. The gringos have chased you from their country as they chased me. I hate them. You hate them. But enough of them. You have no business in Mexico except to seek work. I give you work. You are big. You are strong. You are like a bull. You stay with me, senor, and I make you captain. I need men what can talk some English and look like gringo. You do fine. We make much money—you and I. We make it all time while we fight to liberate my poor Mexico. When Mexico liberate we fight some more to liberate her again. The Germans they give me much money to liberate Mexico, and—there are other ways of getting much money when one is riding around through rich country with soldiers liberating his poor, bleeding country. Sabe?” “Yep, I guess I savvy,” said Billy, “an' it listens all right to me's far's you've gone. My pal in on it?” “Eh?” “You make my frien' a captain, too?” Pesita held up his hands and rolled his eyes in holy horror. Take a gringo into his band? It was unthinkable. “He shot,” he cried. “I swear to kill all gringo. I become savior of my country. I rid her of all Americanos.” “Nix on the captain stuff fer me, then,” said Billy, firmly. “That guy's a right one. If any big stiff thinks he can croak little ol' Bridge while Billy Byrne's aroun' he's got anudder t'ink comin'. Why, me an' him's just like brudders.” “You like this gringo?” asked Pesita. “You bet,” cried Billy. Pesita thought for several minutes. In his mind was a scheme which required the help of just such an individual as this stranger—someone who was utterly unknown in the surrounding country and whose presence in a town could not by any stretch of the imagination be connected in any way with the bandit, Pesita. “I tell you,” he said. “I let your friend go. I send him under safe escort to El Orobo Rancho. Maybe he help us there after a while. If you stay I let him go. Otherwise I shoot you both with Miguel.” “Wot you got it in for Mig fer?” asked Billy. “He's a harmless sort o' guy.” “He Villista. Villista with gringos run Mexico—gringos and the church. Just like Huerta would have done it if they'd given him a chance, only Huerta more for church than for gringos.” “Aw, let the poor boob go,” urged Billy, “an' I'll come along wit you. Why he's got a wife an' kids—you wouldn't want to leave them without no one to look after them in this God-forsaken country!” Pesita grinned indulgently. “Very well, Senor Captain,” he said, bowing low. “I let Miguel and your honorable friend go. I send safe escort with them.” “Bully fer you, ol' pot!” exclaimed Billy, and Pesita smiled delightedly in the belief that some complimentary title had been applied to him in the language of “Granavenoo.” “I'll go an' tell 'em,” said Billy. “Yes,” said Pesita, “and say to them that they will start early in the morning.” As Billy turned and walked in the direction that the soldiers had led Bridge and Miguel, Pesita beckoned to a soldier who leaned upon his gun at a short distance from his “general”—a barefooted, slovenly attempt at a headquarters orderly. “Send Captain Rozales to me,” directed Pesita. The soldier shuffled away to where a little circle of men in wide-brimmed, metal-encrusted hats squatted in the shade of a tree, chatting, laughing, and rolling cigarettes. He saluted one of these and delivered his message, whereupon the tall, gaunt Captain Rozales arose and came over to Pesita. “The big one who was brought in today is not a gringo,” said Pesita, by way of opening the conversation. “He is from Granavenoo. He can be of great service to us, for he is very friendly with the Germans—yet he looks like a gringo and could pass for one. We can utilize him. Also he is very large and appears to be equally strong. He should make a good fighter and we have none too many. I have made him a captain.” Rozales grinned. Already among Pesita's following of a hundred men there were fifteen captains. “Where is Granavenoo?” asked Rozales. “You mean to say, my dear captain,” exclaimed Pesita, “that a man of your education does not know where Granavenoo is? I am surprised. Why, it is a German colony.” “Yes, of course. I recall it well now. For the moment it had slipped my mind. My grandfather who was a great traveler was there many times. I have heard him speak of it often.” “But I did not summon you that we might discuss European geography,” interrupted Pesita. “I sent for you to tell you that the stranger would not consent to serve me unless I liberated his friend, the gringo, and that sneaking spy of a Miguel. I was forced to yield, for we can use the stranger. So I have promised, my dear captain, that I shall send them upon their road with a safe escort in the morning, and you shall command the guard. Upon your life respect my promise, Rozales; but if some of Villa's cutthroats should fall upon you, and in the battle, while you were trying to defend the gringo and Miguel, both should be slain by the bullets of the Villistas—ah, but it would be deplorable, Rozales, but it would not be your fault. Who, indeed, could blame you who had fought well and risked your men and yourself in the performance of your sacred duty? Rozales, should such a thing occur what could I do in token of my great pleasure other than make you a colonel?” “I shall defend them with my life, my general,” cried Rozales, bowing low. “Good!” cried Pesita. “That is all.” Rozales started back toward the ring of smokers. “Ah, Captain!” cried Pesita. “Another thing. Will you make it known to the other officers that the stranger from Granavenoo is a captain and that it is my wish that he be well treated, but not told so much as might injure him, or his usefulness, about our sacred work of liberating poor, bleeding unhappy Mexico.” Again Rozales bowed and departed. This time he was not recalled. Billy found Bridge and Miguel squatting on the ground with two dirty-faced peons standing guard over them. The latter were some little distance away. They made no objection when Billy approached the prisoners though they had looked in mild surprise when they saw him crossing toward them without a guard. Billy sat down beside Bridge, and broke into a laugh. “What's the joke?” asked Bridge. “Are we going to be hanged instead of being shot?” “We ain't goin' to be either,” said Billy, “an' I'm a captain. Whaddaya know about that?” He explained all that had taken place between himself and Pesita while Bridge and Miguel listened attentively to his every word. “I t'ought it was about de only way out fer us,” said Billy. “We were in worse than I t'ought.” “Can the Bowery stuff, Billy,” cried Bridge, “and talk like a white man. You can, you know.” “All right, bo,” cried Billy, good-naturedly. “You see I forget when there is anything pressing like this, to chew about. Then I fall back into the old lingo. Well, as I was saying, I didn't want to do it unless you would stay too, but he wouldn't have you. He has it in for all gringos, and that bull you passed him about me being from a foreign country called Grand Avenue! He fell for it like a rube for the tapped-wire stuff. He said if I wouldn't stay and help him he'd croak the bunch of us.” “How about that ace-in-the-hole, you were telling me about?” asked Bridge. “I still got it,” and Billy fondled something hard that swung under his left arm beneath his shirt; “but, Lord, man! what could I do against the whole bunch? I might get a few of them; but they'd get us all in the end. This other way is better, though I hate to have to split with you, old man.” He was silent then for a moment, looking hard at the ground. Bridge whistled, and cleared his throat. “I've always wanted to spend a year in Rio,” he said. “We'll meet there, when you can make your get-away.” “You've said it,” agreed Byrne. “It's Rio as soon as we can make it. Pesita's promised to set you both loose in the morning and send you under safe escort—Miguel to his happy home, and you to El Orobo Rancho. I guess the old stiff isn't so bad after all.” Miguel had pricked up his ears at the sound of the word ESCORT. He leaned far forward, closer to the two Americans, and whispered. “Who is to command the escort?” he asked. “I dunno,” said Billy. “What difference does it make?” “It makes all the difference between life and death for your friend and for me,” said Miguel. “There is no reason why I should need an escort. I know my way throughout all Chihuahua as well as Pesita or any of his cutthroats. I have come and gone all my life without an escort. Of course your friend is different. It might be well for him to have company to El Orobo. Maybe it is all right; but wait until we learn who commands the escort. I know Pesita well. I know his methods. If Rozales rides out with us tomorrow morning you may say good-bye to your friend forever, for you will never see him in Rio, or elsewhere. He and I will be dead before ten o'clock.” “What makes you think that, bo?” demanded Billy. “I do not think, senor,” replied Miguel; “I know.” “Well,” said Billy, “we'll wait and see.” “If it is Rozales, say nothing,” said Miguel. “It will do no good; but we may then be on the watch, and if possible you might find the means to obtain a couple of revolvers for us. In which case—” he shrugged and permitted a faint smile to flex his lips. As they talked a soldier came and announced that they were no longer prisoners—they were to have the freedom of the camp; “but,” he concluded, “the general requests that you do not pass beyond the limits of the camp. There are many desperadoes in the hills and he fears for your safety, now that you are his guests.” The man spoke Spanish, so that it was necessary that Bridge interpret his words for the benefit of Billy, who had understood only part of what he said. “Ask him,” said Byrne, “if that stuff goes for me, too.” “He says no,” replied Bridge after questioning the soldier, “that the captain is now one of them, and may go and come as do the other officers. Such are Pesita's orders.” Billy arose. The messenger had returned to his post at headquarters. The guard had withdrawn, leaving the three men alone. “So long, old man,” said Billy. “If I'm goin' to be of any help to you and Mig the less I'm seen with you the better. I'll blow over and mix with the Dago bunch, an' practice sittin' on my heels. It seems to be the right dope down here, an' I got to learn all I can about bein' a greaser seein' that I've turned one.” “Good-bye Billy, remember Rio,” said Bridge. “And the revolvers, senor,” added Miguel. “You bet,” replied Billy, and strolled off in the direction of the little circle of cigarette smokers. As he approached them Rozales looked up and smiled. Then, rising, extended his hand. “Senor Captain,” he said, “we welcome you. I am Captain Rozales.” He hesitated waiting for Billy to give his name. “My monacker's Byrne,” said Billy. “Pleased to meet you, Cap.” “Ah, Captain Byrne,” and Rozales proceeded to introduce the newcomer to his fellow-officers. Several, like Rozales, were educated men who had been officers in the army under former regimes, but had turned bandit as the safer alternative to suffering immediate death at the hands of the faction then in power. The others, for the most part, were pure-blooded Indians whose adult lives had been spent in outlawry and brigandage. All were small of stature beside the giant, Byrne. Rozales and two others spoke English. With those Billy conversed. He tried to learn from them the name of the officer who was to command the escort that was to accompany Bridge and Miguel into the valley on the morrow; but Rozales and the others assured him that they did not know. When he had asked the question Billy had been looking straight at Rozales, and he had seen the man's pupils contract and noticed the slight backward movement of the body which also denotes determination. Billy knew, therefore, that Rozales was lying. He did know who was to command the escort, and there was something sinister in that knowledge or the fellow would not have denied it. The American began to consider plans for saving his friend from the fate which Pesita had outlined for him. Rozales, too, was thinking rapidly. He was no fool. Why had the stranger desired to know who was to command the escort? He knew none of the officers personally. What difference then, did it make to him who rode out on the morrow with his friend? Ah, but Miguel knew that it would make a difference. Miguel had spoken to the new captain, and aroused his suspicions. Rozales excused himself and rose. A moment later he was in conversation with Pesita, unburdening himself of his suspicions, and outlining a plan. “Do not send me in charge of the escort,” he advised. “Send Captain Byrne himself.” Pesita pooh-poohed the idea. “But wait,” urged Rozales. “Let the stranger ride in command, with a half-dozen picked men who will see that nothing goes wrong. An hour before dawn I will send two men—they will be our best shots—on ahead. They will stop at a place we both know, and about noon the Captain Byrne and his escort will ride back to camp and tell us that they were attacked by a troop of Villa's men, and that both our guests were killed. It will be sad; but it will not be our fault. We will swear vengeance upon Villa, and the Captain Byrne will hate him as a good Pesitista should.” “You have the cunning of the Coyote, my captain,” cried Pesita. “It shall be done as you suggest. Go now, and I will send for Captain Byrne, and give him his orders for the morning.” As Rozales strolled away a figure rose from the shadows at the side of Pesita's tent and slunk off into the darkness. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Edgar Rice Burroughs (1995). The Mucker. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved October 2022 https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/331/pg331-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org , located at https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html.

GRINGO

gringo.com.vc

201-500 employees

Since 2019

COMPANY RANKING

GRINGO

EVERGREEN INDEX #4964

Representing this company? Click here to claim and customize this page!

Gringo WIKI

Apply to get your Tech Company News Page live on HackerNoon.com today!

GRINGO

gringo.com.vc

201-500 employees

Since 2019

COMPANY RANKING

GRINGO

EVERGREEN INDEX #4964

RELATED COMPANIESRANK

STORIES ABOUT GRINGO

Representing this company? Click here to claim and customize this page!

Gringo WIKI

Apply to get your Tech Company News Page live on HackerNoon.com today!