rowned, and his mustachios bristled fiercely, and
his shouts of command were heavily ominous. The wind turned the folds of
his black cloak. It was faced with scarlet silk; and the charro elegance
beneath was black and resplendent. All told, he was a very outburst of
glitter; breeches, jacket, sombrero, saddle, stirrups, and bridle; not
of silver, but of gold. Good carbines for his vagabond Inditos,
magnificence for himself, these had come from that fabulous theft of the
bullion convoy. And he had arrayed himself this rainy day to dazzle a
princess of the Blood. So now he wielded his sword with a conscious
flourish, glancing toward the window to see if he were seen.

"The poseur, never out of his role," murmured his audience there. "How
will he enjoy running, I wonder?"

But to her astonishment he did not run, though Dupin was cutting closer
and closer through tangled bodies, eager to grapple with his old-time
slippery foe. Don Rodrigo raised in his saddle, and looked anxiously in
all directions. Suddenly his dark face lighted, and wheeling round, he
called to his men, and in his turn strove as furiously to reach the
Tiger as the Tiger had striven to reach him. Jacqueline could not now
tell which side to feel sorry for. But she exulted in the thrill of it,
even as she wrung her hands at sight of the red agony.

Then something happened, which even the Tiger, who knew his warfare so
well, had never known; which got into even his dried and toughened
marrow. It was the Rebel yell. It rose over a sudden thunderous rush of
hoof beats. And next, as a puff of air, a herd of horsemen, a wild
mud-spattering streak, surged past the house. On across the open, and
straight upon the fray, they merged everywhere, and made bigger and
livelier the blotch of mad swarming. Some wore slouch hats, others straw
sombreros, and all were ruddily burned. They fought with revolvers, and
often one would pause between shots to spit tobacco. They brought to the
battle one thing above all else, and that was vim, vim unbounded, vim
that simply had to have vent.

Jacqueline caught her breath. What race of men were these? Exalted,
quivering, she watched them doing as workmen what fell to their hands,
yet ever with that whirlwind of vim.

"The Missourians--of course!" she cried.

Through powder smoke and misty rain the figure of one horseman slowly
grew familiar. She caught fleeting glimpses of him, as he darted into a
melee, as he spurred round to