big sad eyes and they met those of Steve. Her
lips framed his name soundlessly. She seemed to lean toward him,
straining from Pasquale, whose arm supported her.

Somehow she broke free and flung herself toward the man she loved. Her
arms fastened around his neck. With a shivering sob she clung tightly to
him.

Pasquale, his eyes stabbing with brutal rage, dragged her back and held
her wrist in his sinewy brown hand. His teeth were clenched, the veins
in his temples swollen. He glared at the cowpuncher as if he would like
to murder him on the spot.

The padre touched Gabriel on the arm. With a start the Liberator came to
himself. The procession moved forward again. Not a word had been spoken,
but Pasquale's golden smile had vanished. The fingernails of his
clenched fist bit savagely into the palm of his hand.

From the procession Culvera saluted Yeager ironically. "Buenos and
adios, senor."

The man to whom he spoke did not even know the Mexican was there. His
eyes and his mind were following the girl who was being driven to her
doom.

From out of the crowd edging the walk a man stepped. It was Adam
Holcomb. He stood directly in front of Pasquale and his bride, blocking
the way. There was a strange light in his eyes. It was as if he looked
from the present far into the future, as if somehow he were a god, an
Olympian who held in his hand the shears of destiny.

The general, still furious, flung an angry look at him. "Well?" he
demanded harshly.

"I want to ask the lady a question, general."

Impatient rage boiled out of Pasquale in an imperious gesture of his
arm. "Afterward, captain. You shall ask her a hundred. Move aside."

"I'll ask it now. This wedding doesn't go on until I hear from the young
lady that she is willing," he announced.

Ruth tried to run forward to him, but the iron grip of the Mexican
stayed her. "Save me," she cried.

"By God! I will."

"Arrest that man," ordered Pasquale in a passion.

At the same time he pushed Ruth from him into the crowd that lined the
path. The brown fingers of the Mexican chief closed upon the handle of
his revolver.

"Here's where I go on a long journey," the Texan cried.

He dragged out an army forty-five. Pasquale and he fired at the same
instant. The Mexican clutched at his heart and swayed back into the
crowd. Holcomb staggered, but recovered himself. He faced the other
Mexican officers, tossed away his revolver, and folded his arms.

"Whenever you