The Greatest Adventure Books - MacLeod Raine Edition. William MacLeod Raine
been noticing some of my poor unfortunate friends,” he grinned.
Chapter 7.
In the Land of Revolutions
The knock that sounded on the door was neither gentle nor apologetic. It sounded as if somebody had flung a baseball bat at it.
O'Connor smiled, remembering that soft tap of yore. “I reckon—” he was beginning, when the door opened to admit a visitor.
This proved to be a huge, red-haired Irishman, with a face that served just now merely as a setting for an irresistible smile. The owner of the flaming head looked round in surprise on the pair of Romanies and began an immediate apology to which a sudden blush served as accompaniment.
“Beg pardon. I didn't know. The damned dago told me—” He stopped in confusion, with a scrape and a bow to the lady.
“Sir, I demand an explanation of this most unwarrantable intrusion,” spoke the ranger haughtily, in his best Spanish.
A patter of soft foreign vowels flowed from the stranger's embarrassment.
“You durned old hawss-stealing greaser, cayn't you talk English?” drawled the gipsy, with a grin.
The other's mouth fell open with astonishment He stared at the slim, dusky young Spaniard for an instant before he fell upon him and began to pound his body with jovial fists.
“You would, would you, you old pie-eating fraud! Try to fool your Uncle Mick and make him think you a greaser, would you? I'll learn yez to play horse with a fullgrown, able-bodied white man.” He punctuated his points with short-arm jolts that Bucky laughingly parried.
“Before ladies, Mick! Haven't you forgot your manners, Red-haid?”
Swiftly Mr. O'Halloran came to flushed rigidity. “Madam, I must still be apologizing. The surprise of meeting me friend went to me head, I shouldn't wonder.”
Bucky doubled up with apparent mirth. “Get into the other room, Curly, and get your other togs on,” he ordered. “Can't you see that Mick is going to fall in love with you if he sees you a minute longer, you young rascal? Hike!”
“Don't you talk that way to a lady, Bucky,” warned O'Halloran, again blushing vividly, after she had disappeared into the next room. “And I want to let yez have it right off the bat that if you've been leading that little Mexican senorita into trouble you've got a quarrel on with Mike O'Halloran.”
“Keep your shirt on, old fire-eater. Who told you I was wronging her any?”
“Are you married to her?”
“You bet I ain't. You see, Mick, that handsome lady you're going to lick the stuffing out of me about is only a plumb ornery sassy young boy, after all.”
“No!” denied Mick, his eyes two excited interrogation-points. “You can't stuff me with any such fairy-tale, me lad.”
“All right. Wait and see,” suggested the ranger easily. “Have a smoke while you're falling out of love.”
“You young limb, I want you to tell me all about it this very minute, before I punch holes in yez.”
Bucky lit his cigar, leaned back, and began to tell the story of Frank Hardman and the knife-thrower. Only one thing he omitted to tell, and that was the conviction that had come home to him a few moments ago that his little comrade was no boy, but a woman. O'Halloran was a chivalrous Irishman, a daredevil of an adventurer, with a pure love of freedom that might very likely in the end bring him to face a row of loaded carbines with his back to a wall, but Bucky had his reticencies that even loyal friendship could not break down. This girl's secret he meant to guard until such time as she chose of her own free will to tell it.
Frank returned just as he finished the tale of the knife episode, and Mick's frank open eyes accused him of idiocy for ever having supposed that this lad was a woman. Why, he was a little fellow not over fifteen—not a day past fifteen, he would swear to that. He was, to be sure, a slender, girlish young fellow, a good deal of a sissy by the look of him, but none the less a sure enough boy. Convinced of this, the big Irishman dismissed him promptly from his thoughts and devoted himself to Bucky.
“And what are yez doing down in greaser land? Thought you was rustling cows for a living somewheres in sunburnt Arizona,” he grinned amiably.
“Me? Oh, I came down on business. We'll talk about that presently. How's your one-hawss revolution getting along, Reddy? I hope it's right peart and healthy.”
O'Halloran's eyes flashed a warning, with the slightest nod in the world toward the boy.
“Don't worry about him. He's straight as a string and knows how to keep his mouth shut. You can tell him anything you would me.” He turned to the boy sitting quietly in an inconspicuous corner. “Mum's the word, Frank. You understand that, of course?”
The boy nodded. “I'll go into the next room, if you like.”
“It isn't necessary. Fire ahead, Mike.”
The latter got up, tiptoed to each door in turn, flung it suddenly open to see that nobody was spying behind it, and then turned the lock. “I have use for me head for another year or two, and it's just as well to see that nobody is spying. You understand, Bucky, that I'm risking me life in telling you what I'm going to. If you have any doubts about this lad—” He stopped, keen eyes fixed on Frank.
“He's as safe as I am, Mike. Is it likely I would take any risks about a thing of that sort with my old bunkie's tough neck inviting the hangman?” asked O'Connor quietly.
“Good enough. The kid looks stanch, and, anyhow, if you guarantee him that's enough for me.” He accepted another of the ranger's cigars, puffed it to a red glow, and leaned back to smile at his friend. “Glory, but it's good to see ye, Bucky, me bye. You'll never know how a man's eyes ache to see a straight-up white man in this land of greasers. It's the God's truth I'm telling ye when I say that I haven't had a scrimmage with me hands since I came here. The only idea this forsaken country has of exchanging compliments is with a knife in the dark.” He shook his flaming head regretfully at the deplorably lost condition of a country where the shillalah was unknown as a social institution.
“If I wasn't tied up with this Valdez bunch I'd get out to-morrow, and sometimes I have half a mind to pull out anyhow. If you've never been associated, me lad, with half a dozen most divilishly polite senors, each one of them watching the others out of the corner of his slant eyes for fear they are going to betray him or assassinate him first, you'll never know the joys of life in this peaceful and contented land of indolence. Life's loaded to the guards with uncertainties, so eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow you hang, or your friend will carve ye in the back with a knife, me old priest used to say, or something like it. 'Tis certain he must have had in mind the Spanish-American, my son.”
“Which is why you're here, you old fraud,” smiled Bucky. “You've got to grumble, of course, but you couldn't be dragged away while there's a chance of a row. Don't I know you of old, Reddy?”
“Anyway, here I am, with me neck so near to the rope it fairly aches sometimes. If you have any inclinations toward suicide, I'll be glad to introduce ye to me revolutionary friends.”
“Thank you, no. The fact is that we have a little private war of our own on hand, Mike. I was thinking maybe you'd like to enlist, old filibuster.”
“Is the pay good?”
“Nothing a day and find yourself,” answered Bucky promptly.
“No reasonable man could ask fairer than that,” agreed O'Halloran, his grin expanding. “Well, then, what's the row? Would ye like to be dictator of Chihuahua or Emperor of Mexico?”
“There's an American in the government prison here under a life sentence. He