And then your voter disappeared back into the chaparral, or over the Rio Grande bridge, and pondered over the insanity of the _gringos_.

It will be seen that the process touched upon was less pleasant than simple. Among the const.i.tuents in the corrals there was often a tendency to fight, and occasionally a stubborn fellow had a clear idea that he wanted to be in a different corral from the one in which he found himself.

There was needed a strong-handed henchman in these cases. Jesus Mendoza was the henchman for one faction, but the other faction needed a henchman, too.

And so Fectnor came.

He had the reputation of knowing every Mexican in Maverick County and in the territory immediately contiguous thereto. Many of them had been members of his gangs when he had contracts in the neighborhood of Eagle Pa.s.s. He knew precisely which of them could be depended upon to remain docile under all manner of indignity, and which of them had a bad habit of placing a sudden check on their laughter and lunging forward with a knife.

They knew him, too. They feared him. They knew he could be coldly brutal--an art which no Mexican has ever mastered. The politicians knew that getting Fectnor was almost equivalent to getting the office. It was more economical to pay him his price than to employ uncertain aids who would have sold their services much more cheaply.

Harboro and Sylvia were sitting on their balcony the second night before the election. A warm wind had been blowing and it was quite pleasant out of doors.

One of the corrals lay not far from the house on the Quemado Road. Mounted Mexicans had been riding past the house and on into the town all day, and, contrary to usual custom, they were not to be seen later in the day returning to the chaparral. They were being prepared to exercise their suffrage privileges.

As Harboro and Sylvia listened it was to be noted that over in the corral the several noises were beginning to be blended in one note. The barbecue fires were burning down; the evening meal had been served, with reserved supplies for late comers. _Mezcal_ and cheap whiskey were being dispensed.

A low hum of voices arose, with the occasional uplifting of a drunken song or a shout of anger.

Suddenly Harboro sat more erect. A shout had arisen over in the corral, and a murmur higher and more sinister than the dominant note of the place grew steadily in intensity. It came to a full stop when a pistol-shot arose above the lesser noises like a sky-rocket.

"He's getting his work in," commented Harboro. He spoke to himself. He had forgotten Sylvia for the moment.

"He? Who?" inquired Sylvia.

He turned toward her in the dusk and replied--with indifference in his tone now--"Fectnor."

She shrank back so that her face would be out of his line of vision.

"Fectnor!" she echoed.

"A fellow they've brought up from the interior to help with the election.

A famous bad man, I believe."

There was silence for a long interval. Harboro supposed the matter did not interest her; but she asked at length: "You know him, then?"

"Only by reputation. A fellow with a lot of bluff, I think. I don't believe very much in bad men. He's managed to terrify the Mexicans somehow or other." He had not noticed that her voice had become dull and low.

"Fectnor!" she breathed to herself. She rocked to and fro, and after a long interval, "Fectnor!" she repeated.

He hitched his chair so that he could look at her. Her prolonged silence was unusual. "Are you getting chilly?" he asked solicitously.

"It does seem chilly, doesn't it?" she responded.

They arose and went into the house.

CHAPTER XI.

Antonia went marketing the next morning, and when she came back Sylvia met her with fearful, inquiring eyes. She was terribly uneasy, and she was one of those creatures who must go more than half-way to meet impending danger. She was not at all surprised when Antonia handed her a sealed envelope.

The old servant did not linger to witness the reading of that written message. She possessed the discretion of her race, of her age. The seora had been married quite a time now. Doubtless there were old friends....

And Sylvia stood alone, reading the sprawling lines which her father had written:

"_Fectnor's here. He wants to see you. Better come down to the house. You know he's likely to make trouble if he doesn't have his way._"

She spelled out the words with contracted brows; and then for the moment she became still another Sylvia. She tore the missive into bits. She was pale with rage--rage which was none the less obsessing because it had in it the element of terror. Her father dared to suggest such a thing! It would have been bad enough if Fectnor had sent the summons himself; but for her father to unite with him against her in such an affair!

She tried to calm herself, succeeding but illy. "Antonia!" she called.

"Antonia!" For once her voice was unlovely, her expression was harsh.

The startled old woman came with quite unprecedented alacrity.

"Antonia, where did you see my father?"

"On the street. He seemed to have waited for me."

"Very well. You must find him again. It doesn't matter how long you search. I want you to find him."

She hurriedly framed a response to that note of her father's:

"_I will not come. Tell Fectnor I never will see him again. He will not dare to harm me._"

As she placed this cry of defiance into an envelope and sealed and addressed it certain words of Harboro's came back to her. That night of their wedding he had lifted her in his powerful arms and had given her a man's a.s.surance: "I mean that you're to have all the help you want--that you're to look to me for your strength."

She reasoned shrewdly: Harboro wasn't the sort of man people would tell things to--about her. They would know what to expect: intense pa.s.sion, swift punishment.

And yet as she watched Antonia go away down the road, suggesting supine submission rather than a friend in need, her heart failed her. Had she done wisely? Fectnor had never stepped aside for any man. He seemed actually to believe that none must deny him the things he wanted. He seemed an insane creature when you thwarted him. There was something terrible about his rages.

She imagined seemingly impossible things: that Fectnor would come to the house--perhaps while Harboro was there. He might kill Harboro.

Alas, the evil she had done in those other days loomed before her now in its true light: not merely as evil deeds, definitely ended with their commission, but as fearful forces that went on existing, to visit her again and destroy her.

She began to hope that Fectnor would actually come to her--now, before Harboro came home. At the worst she might save Harboro, and there was even a chance that she could make Fectnor see her position as she saw it--that she could persuade him to be merciful to her. Surely for the sake of security and peace in all the years that lay before her.... A definite purpose dawned in her eyes. She went to her room and began deliberately to choose her most becoming street costume.

She was ready to go out when Antonia returned.

"Did you find him?" she asked.

Yes, the old woman had found him and delivered the message. He had sent no word in return; he had only glared at the bearer of the message and had cursed her.

"Well, never mind," said Sylvia soothingly. It occurred to her that it must be a sad thing to be an old woman, and a Mexican, and to have to serve as the wire over which the electric current flowed--and to feel only the violence of the current without comprehending the words it carried.

And now to find Fectnor--for this was what she meant to do.

She would see him on the street, where publicity would protect her, even if there were no friends to take her part. She would see him on the street and explain why she could not meet him any more, why he must not ask it.

Certainly it would not look very well for her to be seen talking to him; but she could not help that. She would be going out to do a little shopping, ostensibly, and she would hope to encounter him on the street, either coming or going.

However, her earnest planning proved to be of no avail. Fectnor was nowhere to be seen.

She walked rather leisurely through the town--moving barely fast enough to avoid the appearance of loitering. She walked circ.u.mspectly enough, seemingly taking little interest in events or individuals. That she was keenly on the alert for one familiar face no one would have guessed.