He came into the room and dim figures
could be seen behind him. Was that Lopez tied up, with his back to them in
the darkness? His shoulders were bent over, his hat was pulled down over
his brow. His hair was matted, and two Mexicans stood guard on either side
of him. Far away the stars twinkled, unmindful of his plight.
"Got any water?" Bradley asked.
"Lopez!" Pell exclaimed.
"He's got him!" came from Gilbert.
Lucia grew paler still. "Lopez! Captured!" she cried. "Oh!" And she hid her
face in her hands. What a few brief hours could bring!
Bradley came close to her. "And a fine day's work for us, lady," he said,
triumph in his tone. "We got him at last." Then, in the light of the
candle, he caught a good view of Pell. "Say, I thought you was dead!" he
cried.
"I was," laughed the other. "I mean--only a scalp wound." And he pointed to
the mark on his forehead.
The figure at the door, piteous in its helplessness, never moved, never
turned.
"Give me that water," Bradley continued. "I want to get him in alive if I
can. All the more credit to me and my men, you see."
Morgan Pell had taken the canteen down from the wall and poured some water
in it.
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