Chesterton had been riding at a gallop, but, as he reached the place where the men lay in ambush, he pulled El Capitan to a walk, and took advantage of his first breathing spell to light his pipe.  He had already filled it, and was now fumbling in his pocket for his match-box.  The match-box was of wood such as one can buy, filled to the brim with matches, for one penny.  But it was a most precious possession.  In the early days of his interest in Miss Armitage, as they were once setting forth upon a motor trip, she had handed it to him.

“Why,” he asked.

“You always forget to bring any,” she said simply, “and have to borrow some.”

The other men in the car, knowing this to be a just reproof, laughed sardonically, and at the laugh the girl had looked up in surprise.  Chesterton, seeing the look, understood that her act, trifling as it was, had been sincere, had been inspired simply by thought of his comfort.  And he asked himself why young Miss Armitage should consider his comfort, and why the fact that she did consider it should make him so extremely happy.  And he decided it must be because she loved him and he loved her.

Having arrived at that conclusion, he had asked her to marry him, and upon the match-box had marked the date and the hour.  Since then she had given him many pretty presents, marked with her initials, marked with his crest, with strange cabalistic mottoes that meant nothing to any one save themselves.  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.  As he raised the matchbox it slipped from his fingers and fell noiselessly in the trail.  With an exclamation he dropped to the road and to his knees, and groping in the dust began an eager search.