“I pollute my sword if I touch you with it! But I find it necessary, _señor_! Run me away or run me through, eh? You? Fight, hound! Stand your ground! Your wrist weakens, eh? Bah! ’Tis not worth a gentleman’s time to meet you foot to foot!” Those on the wall were standing now, and some of them had sprung to the ground. Lopez was growling beneath his breath. The caballero drove his antagonist up the slope for a space of ten yards, laughing at him, taunting him, rebuking him, for the neophyte’s treachery. “Do you cry for me to cease?” he demanded. “Never, by the saints----” “Then----!” His blade bit deep into the other’s shoulder. The old _señor’s_ heir staggered, clapped a hand to his sword-arm, whirled and crashed to the ground. And the caballero, stepping back, ran his blade thrice into the turf to clean it, wiped it on his trousers, and returned it to its scabbard. He spurned the treacherous neophyte with his foot and hurried back toward his teepee. He had anticipated what would follow, and he had scant time. From the plaza wall had come a chorus of shrieks and howls. He heard the voice of Señor Lopez raised in raging anger. Neophytes started down the slope, some of them running, armed with knives, clubs and stones, to avenge the downfall of Rojerio Rocha. The frailes called after them in vain. Half a hundred strong, urged on by Lopez and led by the giant Pedro, they rushed toward the teepee beside the creek. The caballero had no idea of dying there, beaten by stones in the hands of Indians. He yet had work to do, he told himself, and when death did come, he wanted it more honourable than this--at least a bit more fashionable. He picked up saddle and bridle and ran to his horse, and, putting on the bridle first, whirled to draw a pistol from his belt. The charge hesitated, stopped. “Back hounds!” he cried. “At least one of you will fall if you come on! Who’ll be that unfortunate, eh? Back!” He threw the saddle over the horse’s back and worked furiously to cinch it. The voice of Lopez roared out again, and once more the neophytes moved forward. Those behind crowded; their speed increased. Stones flew through the air. The crash of the pistol came, and an Indian fell to screech in fear and pain. The caballero leaped to his saddle. His spurs raked his horse’s flanks. Straight at them he dashed, blade out and ready, and as they scattered to right and left he rode through them, slashing, and dashed away up the valley toward the distant cañon, turning in the saddle just before he disappeared behind a jumble of rocks to remove his sombrero and wave it in derision. “Now I am surely cut off from all reputable persons,” he said, aloud; and laughed until the cañon walls sent the echoes of his merriment ringing down the gorge. CHAPTER IX THE ALARM Scattering curses along El Camino Real at every jump of his horse, and caring not whether he killed the animal he rode, Sergeant Carlos Cassara rode like a madman.