"
Noting the effect of these words, Alaire cried, sharply, "What's
the matter, Ed?"
But Austin momentarily was beyond speech. The decanter from which
he was trying to pour himself a drink played a musical tattoo upon
his glass; his face had become ashen and pasty.
"Have they got the body? Do they know who shot him?" he asked,
dully.
"No, no!" Alaire was trembling with impatience. "Don't you
understand? They are over there now, and they'll be back about
midnight. If Longorio had come alone, or if he had left his men at
Sangre de Cristo, everything would be all right. But those
soldiers at Morales's house will be up and awake. Why, it couldn't
have happened worse!" "How many men has he got?" Austin nodded in
the direction of the front room.
"I don't know. Probably four or five. What ails you?"
"That--won't do. They won't--fight on this side of the river.
They--they'd hold them off."
"Who? What are you talking about?"
Something in her husband's inexplicable agitation, something in
the hunted, desperate way in which his eyes were running over the
room, alarmed Alaire.
Ed utterly disregarded her question. Catching sight of the
telephone, which stood upon a stand in the far corner of the room,
he ran to it and, snatching the receiver, violently oscillated the
hook.
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