Bert Wilson at Panama

"Back to the woods," he shouted, "and reload."

Waiting only to recover his bowie and slash the bonds of the Chinaman, who lay there more dead than alive, he led the way. Soon they were under cover, and not till then did Dick throw his arms around Bert and Tom, in a hug that almost made their bones crack. Then he shook hands with Melton, with a fervor that made that hardy hero wince.

"I can never tell you," began Dick, and then he choked.

"You don't have to," returned Melton, gruffly, to conceal his own deep feeling, while Bert and Tom, in the grip of strong emotion, could only pat Dick's arms, without speaking; "It's nothing that any white man wouldn't do for another. Besides, we're not yet out of the woods. Those fellows will get their nerve back in a minute or two, and then look out for trouble. They've probably guessed by this time how few we are, and they'll be wild to get back at us. That leader of theirs is a beast all right, but he's no coward. The way he cut that poison out of his flesh shows that. Load your guns quick, and each get behind a big tree. Have your knives ready too, if it comes to close quarters."

"But you're wounded," cried Dick, as he saw a little trickle of blood from Melton's left shoulder.

"Only a scratch," laughed Melton; "the chief winged me there with his last shot. That's one I owe him and I always pay my debts. Just twist your handkerchief about it, and then we'll forget it."

It proved to be, as he said, only a graze, and they returned to their attitude of strained attention.

In the meantime, the Chinaman had come hobbling out to them, and in his hollow eyes there was a speechless gratitude that made them know that he was their slave for life. He was of no value as a reinforcement, and after having settled him in the shelter of a huge tree, they peered from behind their cover for some sign of the expected foe.

Five – ten – twenty minutes passed, and nothing happened. The waiting was more nerve racking than the actual combat. The only sound that broke the stillness was the groans of the wounded, as they crawled into and behind their tents. It would have been an easy thing to finish the work, but none of them could fire on a helpless man, even though a murderer and an outlaw. They had put them out of the running, and that was enough.

Then suddenly, just as they began to think that after all the bandits had decamped, came a volley of bullets that pattered among the leaves and thudded into the trees.

"I was sure of it," muttered Melton. "Keep close under cover," he commanded, "and make every shot tell."

Even as he spoke, his rifle cracked, and a crouching figure rose with a yell, and lurched heavily forward on his face.

"One less," he grunted, "but there's still a mighty lot of them left."

The shots that had been more or less scattered now grew into a fusillade. It was evident that the fighting was being intelligently directed, and that the bandits were regaining confidence. Melton and the boys shot coolly and carefully whenever they saw a head or an arm exposed, and the yells that followed the shot told that the bullet had found its mark. But there seemed no let up in the enemy's volleys, and what made Melton more uneasy than anything else was that the zone of fire was steadily widening. His long experience told him unerringly that the foe was trying to surround them. If his little band had to face four ways at once, it would go hard with them.

Suddenly he felt a touch on his arm. He looked up and saw the Chinaman.

The latter pointed down the road.

"Men coming," he said. "Blig lots of men. Horses too."

Melton sprang to his feet. Sure enough, there were horsemen coming up the road. Was it a detachment of the guerilla band returning? Were they to be taken by fresh forces in the rear? He grabbed Bert by the shoulder.

"Here," he said, "face around with me. You other fellows stay as you are."

They crouched low with their eyes on the road. The tramp of hoofs became louder and the jingle of spurs and accoutrements fell upon their ears. Then their hearts leaped, as round the curve, riding hard, swept a squad of Mexican cavalry, fully a hundred in number, their brilliant uniforms glittering in the sunlight. With a wild hurrah and waving their hands, they rushed forward to meet them.

There was a hasty movement among the front ranks, as though to repel an assault, but as they saw how few they were and realized the absence of hostile intentions, their carbines were lowered and the captain in command swung himself to the ground.

He was a young, well set up, soldierly looking man, and it took only a

moment for him to grasp the situation, as it was rapidly sketched out by

Melton. He had been educated in the Mexican military school and spoke

English fluently.

"How large a force have you?" he asked.

"Here they are," replied Melton, with a wave of his hand.

"What!" the officer gasped in amazement. "You don't mean to say that with only four men, you attacked El Tigre and his band. It was suicide."

"Well," laughed Melton, "it hasn't come to that yet, but I'm not denying that things are getting too warm for comfort. The rascals would have had us surrounded in a little while, and I'm mighty glad you've come."

"You've done wonders," rejoined the captain, "but now you can rest on your arms, while I clear out this nest of hornets."

"Not a bit of it," replied Melton. "We're going to be in at the death."

"You stubborn Americanos," laughed the captain. "So be it then. You've certainly earned the right to have your way in this."

His dispositions were quickly taken. At the word of command, his troopers dismounted and tethered their horses. Then they deployed in a long line across the woods. A bugle blew the charge, and with a rousing cheer they rushed up the slope and across the clearing. A volley of bullets met them and several of them went down, but the rest kept on without a pause. Their carbines cracked without cessation, and one outlaw after the other fell, until not more than fifteen were left. These last were gathered in a corner of the camp, where under the leadership of El Tigre, who fought with a fury worthy of his name, they made their last despairing stand.

But their hour had come. The blood of their victims was at last to be avenged. One final charge, and the troops swept over them. The guerilla chief, seeing that all was lost, lifted his revolver with the last bullet left, and put it to his head to blow out his brains. He had always boasted that he would never be taken alive. But just as his finger was on the trigger, Dick, who, with his friends, had been in the forefront of the fight, knocked his hand aside and bore him to the ground. In another second, he was tightly bound and the fight was over. With four of his band, the only survivors, he was put under guard, and left to await the pleasure of his captors.

Then at last, they drew breath. The work was done and well done. Dick was with them, safe and sound, and none the worse for his terrible experience. The band which had been the scourge of that distracted country had been practically wiped out, and the leader, who for so long had defied God and man, was a prisoner, awaiting his fate. What that fate would be no one could doubt, who knew how richly he merited death.

"I suppose," said Dick, as they sat a little apart from the others taking lunch with the captain of the troop, at his invitation, "that he'll be taken to Montillo for trial."

"Guess again," chuckled Melton, who knew something of the methods of the

Mexican Government in dealing with guerillas.

"My orders were to take no prisoners," smiled the captain, and there was a meaning in his smile that boded ill for the remnant of the bandit crew.

"And, of course, I must obey my orders," he added drily. "The more readily," he went on, as his face grew dark, "because there is a private score that I have to settle with this scoundrel. The blood of my younger brother is on his hands. You can guess then, senors, whether I was glad, when I was trusted on this mission."

"Are they to be shot, then?" ventured Bert.

"All but the leader," answered the captain. "He must hang. And yet he shall not die by hanging."

Before they could ask an explanation, he rose and excused himself, as he had to give some orders to the soldiers, and they were left to ponder in vain for his meaning.

The next two hours were spent in clearing up the camp and burying the dead. The bodies of the guerillas were thrown hastily into a narrow trench, but those of the soldiers received full military honors, the bugler playing taps, and a salvo of musketry being fired over the graves. In the meantime the boys had wandered over the camp, now shorn of the terror that had so long been connected with it. On the upper end, it terminated at the very brink of a precipice. All of Mexico seemed to be stretched out before them. The abyss fell sheer down for a thousand feet to the rocks below. They shuddered as they stood on the edge and looked through the empty space. On the brink stood a mighty oak tree, with one of its limbs overhanging the chasm.

A sudden recollection struck Melton.

"This must be the place the consul told me about, in one of his stories," he ejaculated. "He told me that one of the Tiger's favorite amusements was to bring a prisoner here and prod him with bayonets over the brink. I guess," he scowled, "we don't need to waste much sympathy on that fellow, no matter what the captain does to him."

And the boys, with a lively recollection of the snake and the buckskin thong, agreed with him.

But now the bugle blew and they hurried back to the clearing. The troop stood at attention. Routine work connected with the raid had been despatched, and the time had come for the military execution. Martial law is brief and stern, and, under his instructions, the captain had the power of life or death without appeal. His face was set and solemn, as befitted one on whom weighed so heavy a responsibility, but there was no relenting in his voice, as he bade a sergeant to bring out the prisoners.

The four came out, sullen and apathetic. He looked them over for a moment, and then gave a sign. A trench was hastily dug and the prisoners placed with their backs to it. Their eyes were bandaged. A firing squad of a dozen men advanced to within ten feet and leveled their rifles. A moment's pause, then a sharp word of command, and death leaped from the guns. When the smoke cleared away, four motionless forms lay in the trench, and justice had been done.

"Don't bury them yet," commanded the captain. "Bring out El Tigre."

There was a stir among the soldiers, as the dreaded chief, whose evil fame was known all over Mexico, was brought before the captain. He was harmless enough now. All his power had been stripped away, and all that remained to him was his one redeeming quality of courage. He had heard the firing, and, as he came from the tent, he passed close by the bodies of his former followers. Doubtless the same fate awaited him, but he did not waver, and his hideous face expressed only the bitterest venom and malignity. If hate could kill, it would have blasted Dick, as for a moment the bandit caught sight of him, in passing. Then he faced his judge, who was also to be his executioner.

"Do you know me, El Tigre?" asked the Captain.

The outlaw glared at him.

"No," he snarled.

"Do you remember the boy you captured on that raid in the San Joaquin valley, three months ago?"

"What of him?"

"He was my brother."

The guerilla shot a swift glance at him.

"Carramba," he muttered. Then after an instant's silence. "Yes, I remember. He was great sport. He died hard. It was very amusing. Yes, he died hard."

If his object was to provoke instant death, he almost succeeded. The captain's eyes flamed and he snatched a revolver from his belt. But he saw the stratagem in time and by a great effort held himself in check. The flush faded from his face, to be succeeded by a deadly pallor.

"El Tigre," he said slowly, "the earth is weary of you and the devil is waiting for you. I shall not keep him waiting long. Take him up to the oak," he commanded, pointing to the great tree on the edge of the precipice.

The soldiers fell into line and the procession started.

When they halted under its branches, the hands and feet of the outlaw were securely tied. Then a soldier climbed into the tree, and far out on the branch that overhung the chasm. At a distance of twenty feet, he fastened a stout rope. Then he crept back, and, making a noose in the other end, took his stand beside the prisoner and waited for orders.

The ghastly preparations were telling on the nerve of the guerilla, and he broke into a string of the wildest blasphemies. Without paying any attention to his ravings, the soldier at a signal, slipped the noose over his head. But instead of tightening it about the neck, as most of the lookers on, as well as the prisoner himself, expected, he adroitly drew it down to the waist, and thence up under the outlaw's arms. Then he pulled it tight. Four men took hold of El Tigre's arms and legs, bore him to the edge of the precipice, and pushed him off into space.

Like a giant pendulum, he swung out in a great arc, and then, returning, almost reached the brink. Gradually the arc grew shorter, until he swayed perpendicularly from the branch. Below, he could see the rocks at the foot of the cliff. The bones of many of his victims already reposed there. How long before he would join them? Was he to be left hanging there as a feast for the carrion birds? Wherever he looked was torture. Below, the rocks. Above, the vultures. In front, the enemies whom he hated with all the passion of his soul.

Ah! A firing squad was coming forward. They were going to shoot him then, after all. Good! Death would be welcome. He heard the roar of the guns, and still he was alive. Could they have missed him? Then another volley rang out. Still he lived. He could not understand. His glance went aloft. The rope was sagging. He could feel it give. A broken strand brushed against his face. And then he understood.

They were firing at the rope!

A panic terror seized him. He had reached the limit of human endurance. Again the shots, and a trembling that told him that the rope was hit. He tried to struggle upward. If he could only ease his weight. He stretched his bound hands aloft in a hopeless effort to climb up to the branch. He no longer dared to look below. Another volley and a sound of tearing. He drew in a long breath as though it would buoy him up. His feet felt about for something to rest on and relieve the strain. And still he could hear the crackling and feel the yielding and once more the guns rang out and the rope broke. With curses on his lips and delirium in his heart, he fell. Once he turned over in his awful flight. Then, a mere atom in that immensity of space, he shot like a plummet to the rocks below.