"Yore lies stick--in yore throat--Salezar!" he panted. "An' those murders cry--to heaven; but you'll only--hear th' echoes ringin' through hell--for all eternity. _You_ called th' roll of th' livin'--on that damnable march; _I_'m--callin' th' roll of th' _dead_! Yore name comes last! There's many a Texan would give his--chance of heaven to change places--with me, _now_!" He raised his head in the darkness. "Oh, Ernest, old pardner; I'm payin' yore debt, _in full_!" The spurs stabbed in vain, for the Delaware was now well above their flaying range; the nails scoring his face were growing feeble. He shifted the leg hold again and managed to imprison one of Salezar's arms in their grip. Lifting himself from the hips, he released the throat hold and grabbed the Mexican's other arm, thrust it under him and fell back on it as his two hands, free now to work their worst, leaped back under the swarthy chin. The relentless thumbs pressed up and in. The Blackfoot on guard at the end of the driveway thought he heard the door open and close, but there was no doubt about the labored breathing which wheezed along the dark wall. Stumbling steps faltered and dragged and then the Delaware bumped into him and held to him for a moment. "Git th' hosses, Hank!" came a mumbled command. "Thar with Jim an' Zeb," whispered the hunter in surprise. "How'd ye get so wet? Is that blood?" "Spurred me--I'll be all right--soon's I git breath. He--fought like a--fiend." "Git his ears?" eagerly demanded the Blackfoot. "Thar's been ears enough took--already. Come on; _she's_ in th' _palacio_--with _Armijo_!" "Jest what we figgered, _damn him_!" growled the Blackfoot, leading the way.