“He went down this side street,” said the bartender. “He was alone, and he’ll hide out till night when his gang comes over. You ought to find him in that Mexican lay-out below the depot. He’s got a girl down there—Pancha Sales.”
“How was he armed?” asked Buckley.
“Two pearl-handled sixes, and a knife.”
“Keep this for me, Billy,” said the ranger, handing over his Winchester. Quixotic, perhaps, but it was Bob Buckley’s way. Another man—and a braver one—might have raised a posse to accompany him. It was Buckley’s rule to discard all preliminary advantage.
The Mexican had left behind him a wake of closed doors and an empty street, but now people were beginning to emerge from their places of refuge with assumed unconsciousness of anything having happened. Many citizens who knew the ranger pointed out to him with alacrity the course of Garcia’s retreat.
As Buckley swung along upon the trail he felt the beginning of the suffocating constriction about his throat, the cold sweat under the brim of his hat, the old, shameful, dreaded sinking of his heart as it went down, down, down in his bosom.
The morning train of the Mexican Central had that day been three hours late, thus failing to connect with the I. & G. N. on the other side of the river.
