Esteban turned a sick, white face over his shoulder and jerked out
his orders; then he kicked his tired mount into a swifter gallop.
It was he who first broke out into the clearing. One glance, and
the story was told.
The hut was but a crumbling skeleton of charred poles. Strung out
across the little field of malangas, yuccas, and sweet-potatoes
were several hilarious Volunteers, their arms filled with loot
from the cabin. Behind them strode an officer bearing Rosa
struggling against his breast.
Esteban did not pause; he drove his horse headlong through the
soft red earth of the garden. His sudden appearance seemed briefly
to paralyze the marauders. It was a moment before they could drop
their spoils, unsling their rifles, and begin to fire at him, and
by that time he had covered half the distance to his sister. Those
rifle-shots came faintly to Esteban's ears; he scarcely heard
them; he merely lowered his head and rode straight at that black-
visaged colonel, sobbing and whimpering in his fury.
But in spite of his speed he made no difficult target. A bullet
brought his horse down and the boy went flying over its neck.
Nothing but the loose loam saved him from injury. As he rose to
his feet, breathless and covered with the red dirt, there came a
swift thudding of hoofs and Asensio swept past him like a rocket.
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