and Republic
face to face, on equal terms. It had taken tenacious faith and gloomy
years, but the day came at last. The news sifted through defile and
gorge. The invader had embarked for Toulon. Nearer at hand Mendez had
evacuated Morelia, and was marching to Queretero. And at Queretero was
Miramon, driven there from the north by Escobedo. At Queretero was the
Emperor--was the Empire, desperate, ferocious, an animal at bay. Out
boldly upon the plain, then! But no longer as a slinking guerrilla
horde! As an army rather, with thrilling bugles and the Mexican eagle
aloft, and regiment numbers in gold on pennons of brightest red! For the
Empire was the hunted mad-dog now, and the dignified host was the
Republic. The barracks of the Sierra were arming.

In one of the corrals an officer of cavalry was quelling insubordination
with soft words. But the mutineers, not knowing their man, did not
fathom the dangerous sweetness of his tone. They were deserters from
Mendez, come that morning, and as they had horses, were foisted on the
officer's splendid troop. But like the native infantry, they insisted
that their women, the soldaderas, should go with them on what was to be
a swift march to Queretero. Having brought useful information concerning
Mendez, they were insolent in their demands.

"Now, muchachos," said the officer of cavalry, "you see how absurd it
is, so quiet down. The women can follow later."

"A Gringo to dictate to us, bless me the saints! Us, free Mexicans, and
Republicans!" And the ringleader drew his machete and rushed on the
officer.

The Gringo smiled, in a way that a man rarely smiles. His eyes opened in
mild surprise, and as the mutineers looked to see his head roll from his
shoulders, he was still smiling in that poisonously sweet way. Perhaps
there passed across his face just the shadow of pity or of revulsion,
but none might say for certain, because of a pistol's flash that came so
quickly after. With the report the assailant plunged headlong, and on
the ground seemed to shrivel in his rags. Behind the smoke the officer
was carelessly holding a large black revolver, no higher than his hip.

"Because," he added, "it's not a woman's game."

Then he thrust the weapon back under his ribs and sauntered away. The
mutineers gaped in trembling at his back. When they picked up the
ringleader, they saw that his fingers had been neatly clipped at the
hilt of the machete.

The cavalry officer was Driscoll--but