But the wooden matchbox was still the most valued of
his possessions.
As he rode into the valley the rays of the moon fell fully upon him, and
exposed him to the outpost as pitilessly as though he had been held in
the circle of a search-light.
The bronzed Mausers pushed cautiously through the screen of vines. There
was a pause, and the rifle of the sergeant wavered. When he spoke his
tone was one of disappointment.
"He is a scout, riding alone," he said.
"He is an officer," returned the sharp-shooter, excitedly. "The others
follow. We should fire now and give the signal."
"He is no officer, he is a scout," repeated the sergeant. "They have
sent him ahead to study the trail and to seek us. He may be a league in
advance. If we shoot HIM, we only warn the others."
Chesterton was within fifty yards. After an excited and anxious
search he had found the match-box in the wrong pocket. The eyes of
the sharp-shooter frowned along the barrel of his rifle. With his chin
pressed against the stock he whispered swiftly from the corner of his
lips, "He is an officer! I am aiming where the strap crosses his heart.
You aim at his belt. We fire together."
The heat of the tropic night and the strenuous gallop had covered El
Capitan with a lather of sweat. The reins upon his neck dripped with it.
The gauntlets with which Chesterton held them were wet.
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