short by a Spanish bullet. Miss Hathaway, I must ask you to step into the library, as our visitors have arrived." And, throwing open the door, Van Zandt stands upon the threshold, waiting.
Lieutenant Sanchez and his men rein their horses within a dozen paces of the house. The leader dismounts and comes leisurely up the walk, apparently oblivious of the presence of Van Zandt, whose watchful eyes are covering every movement of the scoundrelly band.
"One moment," commands the American, holding up his hand. But the Spaniard pays not the slightest attention.
"Halt!"
This time Sanchez pauses and strokes his mustachios with exasperating calmness. "I would advise the senor to make no opposition if he values his life," he says.
"What is your errand here?"
"The American senorita, to whom I am indebted for this token." Sanchez indicates the long, dull-red scratch upon his unamiable visage. "I have no time or inclination to parley with you, senor. Out of the way, or I shall order my men to fire upon you." The troopers half-raise their carbines.
Van Zandt tears down a worn edition of the stars and stripes that decks the wall above his head, and as he throws it across his breast and shoulder his voice rings out defiantly:
"Fire upon the American flag, if you dare!"
The answer is a volley that splinters the woodwork about him and brings down the glass above the door in a shower. Van Zandt feels a sharp twinge in his left arm, and with an exclamation of rage and pain he lifts his revolver and fires.
Lieutenant Sanchez falls dead in his tracks and there is an instant scattering out of range on the part of his followers.
As Van Zandt closes the door and slips the bolt he turns to see Cyrus Felton lying upon the floor, a stream of blood flowing from a wound in his side.
