Kitabı oku: «The Coast of Adventure», sayfa 14

CHAPTER XXVII
HANDS DOWN

Cliffe had spent some time at Villa Paz when President Altiera sent for him one morning. It was with mixed feelings that Cliffe obeyed the summons, for his business had proved longer and more difficult than he expected, and he was anxious about Evelyn. Indeed, he wondered whether he should let the concessions go and return to the coast; but he determined to be guided by what took place during the interview.

It was getting hot when Altiera received him, and a glare of reflected light shone through the unshuttered window. Cliffe, looking out over the little town, thought there was an ominous quiet. An hour earlier he had watched a company of slouching, dusty soldiers, equipped as if for service, march through the narrow streets; but there was now no one about. It struck him as significant that all the green shutters were closed and the entrances to the patios barred. This might have some bearing on his business, but it was not of the first importance, and he turned to the President and studied him closely.

There was a subtle change in Altiera since their last meeting. His manner was somehow less cordial, and suspicion seemed to lurk in his dark eyes. When he had indicated a chair he looked at Cliffe steadily.

"You have, no doubt, thought over the matter we talked about not long ago," he began. "It is necessary that I should know when we may expect the loan."

"That, as I think you understand, depends on when I may expect the concessions."

"I cannot sign the papers yet. It would provoke a storm of indignation that I cannot risk. My enemies have taught the people that I am robbing them when I make a grant to foreigners."

"In short, you mean to put down the rebels before you conclude the deal with me."

"You have guessed right. There will be no complaints when I have shown that I have the upper hand."

"If I had known your plans at the beginning, I'd have acted differently," Cliffe said.

Altiera gave him a piercing glance.

"Señor, I do not think you are justified in charging us with a want of candor, because there is evidence that you have not been quite honest with us. Our most dangerous enemy is Martin Sarmiento, and we find him staying at your hotel in Havana, where the señorita Cliffe helps him in an attempt to escape observation."

"I do not know the man," Cliffe protested with a puzzled air.

"Then it is strange that we should have caught a messenger bringing you a note from him," Altiera answered. "I think we shall gain nothing by fencing, señor."

Cliffe frowned.

"I've just got to say that I've never, to my knowledge, met Don Martin. What was the note about?"

"We will talk of that later. In the meanwhile, I understand you have decided not to let me have the money that we need?"

"Not without a written promise that the papers will be signed and handed to me in a fortnight. Unless you consent, I must start for Valverde at once."

Altiera pondered for a few moments, knitting his brows.

"You are, no doubt, anxious to rejoin your daughter," he said slowly. "Perhaps I had better tell you that she is not at Valverde."

"Not at Valverde!" Cliffe exclaimed. "Then where has she gone?"

"I cannot tell you."

Cliffe clenched his hand, but would not let his alarm master him. He suspected treachery and knew that he must be cool.

"Your secretary assured me that Miss Cliffe would be safe with the alcalde's wife; I shall hold him responsible. Why did she leave Valverde?"

"It seems the señorita got tired of waiting, and set off to rejoin you. This is most likely, but it is said in the cafés that she ran away with the señor Gomez."

Cliffe looked up with his face set and an ominous sparkle in his eyes.

"That is a lie!"

"Personally, I think so; but having some knowledge of the sex, I would not care to predict what a romantic young woman might do."

"Get on with your tale!"

Altiera regarded Cliffe calmly.

"The señorita had my secretary's escort, but, finding the road dangerous, he made for Rio Frio, where he put her in safe hands. Her liberty was not interfered with and one morning she left the house and did not come back."

Cliffe got up and advanced a yard or two across the floor.

"You mean she ran away? Why did she do so?"

"Your pardon, señor!" Altiera spread out his hands with a mocking smile. "There is no reason to believe she had any cause to run away; but, not knowing your daughter's character, I cannot tell you why she went."

"Very well," said Cliffe, restraining himself with an effort. "I must ask you for an armed escort to Rio Frio, where I will make inquiries. I want the men at once!"

"I am afraid that is impossible. We have news that there are rebels in the mountains. If I gave you a guard, the peons might be incited to attack you, and the trouble would spread before we are ready to deal with it. As President of this country, it is my business to think of its welfare first."

"I understand," Cliffe said very dryly. "If I promised to let you have the money you want, you might see your duty differently."

Altiera looked at him with thoughtful eyes. The American was shrewd, but did not seem as eager as he had expected.

"Señor, the need of funds that would ensure the maintenance of order and firm government justifies a risk one would not take without such a reason. I will give you a guard and send soldiers to make a thorough search for the señorita if we can agree about the loan."

"This means you really do not know where my daughter is. I was not sure of it until now."

Altiera saw he had blundered in admitting that the girl was no longer in his hands; but while he considered how his mistake could be covered Cliffe resumed:

"It was a cunning plot, but you put it through clumsily, and you're going to find that kidnapping an American woman is a dangerous game for the President of a third-rate republic."

"One must make allowances for the excited imagination of an anxious father," Altiera answered with an indulgent smile. "I deny the plot. There is no need for one. We have a charming young lady left alone in a foreign town who finds waiting tedious and determines to join her relative. This is a simple and satisfactory explanation, without the other that she forms a romantic attachment for an officer of rank. We provide an escort because the country is disturbed, and part of the journey is accomplished. It is not safe for her to go farther, but she is rash, and, disregarding our advice, ventures too far from the house. Then she loses her way and is perhaps seized by the rebels, with the object of embarrassing the Government. We cannot be held responsible, but we are willing to attempt her rescue when we see an opportunity."

The explanation was plausible, and could not be disproved until Cliffe heard his daughter's account. But what he wanted was to find her.

"The opportunity is now, before the rebels begin to move," he said. "You refuse to seize it?"

"You understand why it is impossible. I cannot do anything that might plunge my country into a conflict, unless you show me some reason that would justify the risk."

"I cannot give you such a reason."

Altiera shrugged.

"It is for you to decide! We come to a deadlock; our negotiations break off."

"Very well," said Cliffe. "I leave Villa Paz in an hour, and it wouldn't be wise of you to interfere with my movements. My business with you is known to people who have some political influence in the United States, and if I don't turn up in good time, inquiries will be made."

He turned abruptly and went out. It seemed safer to move quickly, though he imagined the hint he had given Altiera would prevent any attempt to stop him. The President had found a plausible excuse for Evelyn's disappearance, but he would hesitate about detaining an American citizen whose friends could bring pressure to bear at Washington. This supposition was borne out when Cliffe found no trouble in hiring a guide and mules; but while he made the arrangements his brain was working.

He would willingly have met the demand for money, only that Altiera had incautiously admitted that he did not know where Evelyn was. Cliffe had acted on impulse in refusing to submit to further exaction, but calm reflection justified the course. Having a deep distrust of the man, he thought he might take the money and then not undertake the search for the girl. Cliffe determined to set about it himself and make a bid for the help of the revolutionaries. This would involve him in a serious loss, but that did not count. He must rescue his daughter, whatever it cost.

Then he remembered that the President had admitted having intercepted a message to him from the rebel leader. He had meant to insist on learning what it was about, but had somehow omitted to do so, and it was now too late to reopen the matter. There was, however, a ray of hope in the thought that Sarmiento had tried to communicate with him.

When his baggage had been strapped on a pack-mule, he mounted and rode out of Villa Paz as if making for Valverde, but as soon as they had left the last of the houses behind he pulled up and quietly studied his guide. He was a sturdy, brown-faced peon, dressed in ragged white cotton, with raw-hide sandals and a colored blanket strapped round his shoulders, but he looked trustworthy. Moreover, Cliffe thought his willingness to assist a foreigner who was leaving the President's house without an escort, which must have shown that he had lost the autocrat's favor, had some significance. It was unfortunate that he could not speak much Castilian, but he knew that money talks in a language that is generally understood.

"I have changed my mind; we will not go to the coast," he said, stumbling over the words and helping out his meaning by pointing to the mountains.

The peon nodded.

"To me it is equal where the señor goes, so long as I am paid for the days we spend upon the road."

"Very well," said Cliffe, taking out a handful of silver. "Do you know Don Martin Sarmiento?"

The peon looked doubtful, and Cliffe saw that, as he had suspected, the fellow had some dealings with the President's enemies.

"Don Martin is known to many," he replied cautiously.

Cliffe jingled the silver and awkwardly explained that he was no longer a friend of the President's and wished to see Sarmiento as soon as he could.

For a time the muleteer did not speak; then he looked up with an air of decision.

"It may be difficult, señor, but we will try," he said, and jerking the pack-mule's bridle abruptly left the road.

They passed through a coffee plantation and a field of sugar-cane, and then as they reached thick forest the muleteer stopped and indicated the road that wound in loops down the hillside.

"It is well the President should think we have gone that way," he remarked with a smile. "He has, no doubt, been told how we left the town."

Cliffe looked back across the wide sweep of sun-scorched country to the shining streak on the horizon. His path led into the mountains and he longed for the sea. Then he thought of Grahame and wondered where he was. Cliffe felt sure the man would help him if he knew his need. He was beginning to suspect what business Grahame had on the coast. He asked his guide about the Enchantress, but the fellow did not seem to understand, and it was obvious that he had not heard of Grahame. Then Cliffe urged his mule on and plunged into the steamy shade.

Two days later they rode into a deep gorge filled with giant, creeper-festooned trees, and the guide moved forward slowly, glancing into the shadow that shut in the winding track. It appeared that his caution was justified, for presently a hoarse voice bade them halt, and as they pulled up two men with rifles stepped out into the sunlight.

For some time the muleteer disputed with them, using emphatic gestures and pointing to Cliffe; and then he went on with one while the other sat down watching the American, with his rifle across his knees. It was very hot, for the sun struck down through an opening in the branches, but although the perspiration dripped from him Cliffe did not think it wise to move. Indeed, he was glad that his mule stood quiet, whisking off the flies.

At last some one called in the forest and Cliffe's guard told him to ride on, though the man followed at a short distance, as if to prevent his escape. A few hundred yards farther on, the gorge widened into a level hollow, and Cliffe saw that he was in a camp.

It was not marked by military order. Men of various shades of color lay about, smoking cigarettes. Some were barefooted, and most were poorly dressed, but all wore red sashes, and good rifles lay ready to their hands. They looked more like brigands than soldiers, and it was hard to imagine they had been drilled, but while their attitudes were slackly negligent, their faces were resolute. In the background, climbing forest, choked with fallen trees and trailing vines, rolled up the steep hillside. It was very hot, and the hum of insects mingled with the sound of drowsy voices.

Two men, better dressed than the others, came forward, and Cliffe dismounted and followed them to a seat in the shadow, where they gave him some cigarettes.

"Now, señor, you will tell us why you came here," said one.

Cliffe had not expected to be addressed in good English, and he looked at the man with surprise.

The Spaniard smiled.

"With us, the consequences of trying to serve one's country is that one finds it safer to live somewhere else. But we will keep to the point."

"I am looking for Don Martin Sarmiento," Cliffe said. "I expect you know where he is."

"That is so, but it would be difficult to reach him, and we leave this place to-night. In fact, it is hard to see what we ought to do with you, but it might help if you told us what your business is with Don Martin."

"I guess you're surprised I should want to see him," Cliffe remarked with some dryness.

"It is natural," said the other. "We know you are a friend of the President's, and we suspect that you have been financing him. The money you gave him would be used to put us down."

Cliffe thought for a few moments. The man seemed a person of some consequence, and apparently commanded the band of rebels. His permission must be obtained before Cliffe could proceed, and since he meant to ask Don Martin's help there was, perhaps, no cause for reticence.

"Very well," he said. "I will tell you why I am going to your leader."

He related what had led to his quarrel with the President, and when he had finished, the man translated the narrative to his comrade.

"It is fortunate, señor, you refused the loan, because you will never get the concessions; Altiera's rule will be over in a day or two. But you believed him when he said he did not know where your daughter is?"

"Yes. He seemed to speak without thinking, and was sorry afterward."

"Then, as the señorita is not in his hands, she is probably in ours, but our forces are scattered, and at present we cannot make inquiries. However, I imagine you will find her quickest by remaining with us – and you will excuse my saying that it would not suit us to let you go. If you were seized by the President's soldiers, he might make some use of you. Have I your promise that you will not try to escape?"

Although the man was courteous, Cliffe thought an attempt to run away would lead to trouble, but this was not what decided him to stay. He had been bred to business, but now deep-rooted impulses were stirring. The President and Gomez had cheated him, and he felt very sore about it, but they had, moreover, carried off and, no doubt, terrorized Evelyn. The thought of this filled him with a fierce desire to get even with them.

"Señores," he said grimly, "you not only have my word not to attempt to escape but you have my pledge to help you in every way I can."

"We start for Rio Frio to-night," the rebel answered in a significant tone.

"Good!" Cliffe said, and glanced about at the little groups of determined looking men. "I'll confess I'm curious to know how you got such good rifles," he added.

The rebel studied him keenly for a moment; and seemed satisfied.

"A countryman of yours bought and landed them for us in small quantities."

"Grahame!" Cliffe exclaimed, and laughed, for he found the situation ironically humorous. He liked Grahame, and suspected that Evelyn was interested in him; and now it was obvious that the man had helped the revolutionaries to ruin his plans.

"I know him," he said. "As a matter of fact, he's an Englishman."

"At present he is Gomez's prisoner. That is one reason we strike the first blow at Rio Frio."

"Ah! Well, if you mean to rescue him, you can rely on my doing the best I can."

The rebel changed the subject, but Cliffe imagined he had gained his confidence. He was invited to the officers' frugal four o'clock dinner, and afterward sat talking with them while the shadows filled the hollow. Although still anxious about Evelyn, he felt less disturbed, and was sensible of a strange but pleasant thrill. Feelings he thought he had long grown out of were reawakening; there would be no more trucking with the rogues who had cheated him and carried off his daughter. When they next met, he would demand satisfaction with a rifle in his hands. Cliffe admitted that there was something rather absurd and barbarous in the pleasure the thought of the meeting afforded him, but, for all that, the adventure he was embarking on had a strong attraction.

CHAPTER XXVIII
THE PRESIDENT'S DESPATCHES

The sun had set when Walthew urged his worn-out mule up a narrow track that twisted along the hillside through thick timber. The evening was very dark, and thin mist drifted among the giant trees. Creepers streamed down from their interlacing boughs, damp brush projected from the sides of the trail, and Walthew growled savagely when he was buffeted by clusters of dewy leaves. His head ached, the perspiration dripped from his hot face, and he was sore in every limb, while he found the steamy atmosphere almost unbreathable.

The cut on his head was healing, but after a long, forced march from the coast, he had at sunrise left the camp where he and the revolutionaries had spent the night. The country ahead was reported to be watched by the President's soldiers, and as the party was not strong enough to fight, they had separated, hoping to slip past the pickets singly and meet at a rendezvous agreed upon. Walthew reached the spot without being molested, but although he waited for an hour nobody else arrived. It seemed possible, however, that he had mistaken the place, and he determined to push on to Rio Frio, trusting that his companions would rejoin him there. He had been told that as the President had dealings with foreigners he might be allowed to pass by any soldiers he fell in with when they saw he was an American.

He was, however, still a long way from Rio Frio, his mule was exhausted, and he doubted if he were going the right way. There was nothing to be seen but shadowy trunks that loomed through the mist a yard or two off, and faint specks of phosphorescent light where the fireflies twinkled.

Rocking in his saddle with a painful jar, Walthew thought that if the jaded beast stumbled again as badly it would come down, and he half decided to dismount. He felt that he would be safer on his feet; but the mule, recovering, turned abruptly without his guiding it, and a few moments later the darkness grew thinner.

The trees now rose on one side in a dense, black mass, the ground was more level, and Walthew saw that the animal had struck into a road that led through a clearing. He followed it, in the hope that there was a hacienda near, and soon a light shone in the distance. The mule now needed no urging, and in a few minutes a building of some size loomed against the sky. Walthew rode up to it, and as he reached the arched entrance to the patio a man appeared, while another man moved softly behind him as if to cut off his retreat.

"Can I get a fresh mule here and perhaps something to eat?" he asked as carelessly as he could.

"Certainly, señor," said the man. "If you will get down, we will put the beast in the stable."

Walthew hesitated. There was no obvious reason why he should distrust the fellow, but he imagined that he had been watching for somebody coming down the road. The mule, however, was worn out, and he did not think he had much chance of escaping if treachery was intended.

"Very well," he said, dismounting, and when another man came up, he stumbled after the first into the passage.

"You have ridden far, señor, and will enjoy a rest," his guide remarked. "One does not lose time by stopping for food on a long journey."

Walthew felt more suspicious. They were now near a lamp that hung in the arch, and although his companion was dressed like a peon his voice suggested some education. The feeling that his arrival had been expected was stronger, but it was too late to turn back and he went on, surreptitiously making sure that his automatic pistol was loose. He was taken across the patio, up an outside staircase, and along a balcony, where his guide opened a door.

"The house is at your disposal," he said with Spanish politeness, bowing to Walthew to enter.

The door was closed sharply and Walthew wondered if he had been trapped as he cast a quick glance about. The room was large, badly lighted, and scantily furnished. Two of its windows were open, but he remembered that they must be some distance from the ground. There seemed, however, to be no reason for alarm. At the far end of the room a table was laid for supper, and a girl and a priest sat near it. They rose as he came forward.

Walthew gasped.

"Blanca!"

The girl seemed equally astonished.

"Señor Walthew!" she exclaimed, and her tone indicated both perplexity and concern. Walthew's clothes were gray with dust, his pose was slack with fatigue, and a dirty bandage covered his forehead.

"You seem surprised," he managed to say; "I guess I am." The gleam in his eyes showed the pleasure he felt. "I didn't expect to find you here."

"But where do you come from?"

"From the San Lucar lagoon; traveled as fast as I could, but lost my companions in the bush. They belong to your party."

The priest came forward and Walthew recognized Father Agustin.

"There has been a mistake," the priest said to Blanca, and bowed to Walthew. "You will excuse me; I have an order to give."

Walthew thought it had something to do with his arrival. He was no longer suspicious, but puzzled. He was among friends, but they had received him in a curious manner.

He turned to Blanca with a smile.

"It looks as if I'm intruding, but I hope you won't turn me out."

"Oh, no," she said with a compassionate glance that thrilled him. "You seem ill and tired. Are you hurt?"

"Not much; a scratch on my head. But are you safe here? They told us the woods were full of the President's soldiers."

"We shall be gone at daybreak, and we have a guard." Blanca paused and resumed with an air of relief: "It was fortunate you did not pass the house."

"That's a sure thing," Walthew agreed. "However, I guess I know what you mean. When I pulled up I fancied your friends were watching for me, and I'd have found the road blocked if I'd gone on. Don't you think you had better tell me what it's all about?"

Blanca hesitated with some color in her face, but just then Father Agustin returned.

"I have warned the men," he informed the girl.

"Señor Walthew wishes to know what is going on," she said.

"It might be better that he should know, and he is to be trusted; but you must decide whether you will tell him or not."

Blanca was silent for a moment, and then began in a rather strained voice:

"We have a spy in the President's household, and word was sent us that a man would leave Villa Paz with some important despatches for Gomez. We believe they contain instructions about what he must do when the fighting begins, but, to avoid suspicion, Altiera is sending a foreign trader to whom he has given some privileges. We expect him to stop and change mules here, because the hacienda belongs to one of the President's supporters."

"I see!" said Walthew. "He would not have carried the despatches past this house. But where is its owner?"

"Hiding at a hacienda some distance off. He is a timid man, and we had him warned that the rebels were coming to burn the place. An hour after he left with his family we took possession."

"But why did Don Martin send you?" Walthew asked sharply. "Hasn't he men enough?"

Blanca blushed and looked embarrassed, but the next moment she lifted her head with an air of pride. There was a sparkle in her deep blue eyes.

"I am a patriot, señor, and ready to make a sacrifice for my country. We must seize the despatches, but we do not wish to use force on a foreigner, because this might lead to trouble. Our plan was to change the papers for others and send the messenger on without his knowing that he had lost them. It would not be an easy matter – "

"In short," Father Agustin interposed with some dryness, "the señorita thought she might succeed where a man would fail."

The blood rushed to Walthew's face, for he understood. Blanca meant to use her personal charm to trick and rob the messenger. It seemed to him an outrage; but she fixed her eyes on him, and they had a haughty, challenging look. She was daring him to deny that the course she meant to take was warranted. He was furiously angry, but he tried to be just, and he knew that she would not go too far.

"It seems you do not approve!" she said.

Walthew felt a thrill. In a sense, she had admitted that his good opinion was worth something; but he saw that he must be careful. She was proud and had the fiery Spanish temperament. He might lose her by a hint of doubt.

"No," he said, "I don't approve; but I can conquer my prejudices, as you must have done. It is hateful to think of a woman's doing such work, but one must admire the courage that has helped you to undertake it. I dare say the cause demands the sacrifice."

The girl's expression softened, and she smiled as she turned to the priest.

"Do you not think Señor Walthew has answered well?"

"It is obvious that he has tact, and I think he has feeling," said Father Agustin. "But has he not some news for us, perhaps?"

"I have," said Walthew. "I want your help."

He began with the arrival of Evelyn's message, and Blanca started as if about to speak, but Father Agustin stopped her by a sign. Her face grew intent as Walthew told how they had driven the Enchantress before the gale, and her eyes sparkled when he deprecatingly related the struggle on the beach.

"I think you have no reason to apologize," she said. "They must have sent a strong guard, and you tried to rescue your friend alone. Miguel was right; there was nothing to be done by two or three men with knives." Then she paused with a thoughtful look. "It seems you do not know that Miss Cliffe is safe with us."

"It is a relief to learn that," Walthew said with feeling.

"Since she was at Rio Frio when she sent the note, it is plain that Gomez added the few lines that led you into the trap. But we must think how we can rescue Mr. Grahame. You suggest that the men who came with you from San Lucar have no plans?"

"No. They expected to gather a force on the way, but the peons had already gone off to join Don Martin. We meant to steal into Rio Frio and then see what could be done. All I know is that I'm not going back without my partner."

"We may find a way to set him free, but it will need some thought," Father Agustin remarked. "When a thing looks difficult, force is not always the best means."

"It doesn't seem likely to be of much use now," Walthew gloomily agreed. "I'd six of your countrymen with me until I lost them, and we were told that Gomez was filling Rio Frio with soldiers… But how did you come to take a part in this affair?"

Father Agustin's eyes twinkled.

"I came as duenna. You were surprised when you heard what the señorita had undertaken, but it appeared that my presence might be something of a protection and, perhaps, a guarantee. One concludes that this did not strike you."

Walthew looked embarrassed, but Father Agustin smiled.

"You look as if you need refreshment," he said. "We will have our supper now."

When the meal was finished, Father Agustin kept Walthew talking while Blanca leaned back silently in her chair. Her look was strained, and once Walthew surprised her cautious glance at the clock.

"I had forgotten the despatch-carrier," he said with some sharpness. "He doesn't seem to be coming."

"There is another road; longer and at present dangerous," explained Father Agustin. "We have had it watched, but this is the obvious way for a messenger to take."

"For all that," said Walthew steadily, "I hope the fellow will choose the other."

Neither of them answered. Blanca lay back in her chair; the priest sat with one elbow on the table, his cheek resting on his upturned palm. He was very tired.

Walthew studied him for a moment and then put his thoughts into words.

"It is curious, Father Agustin, that whenever I have met you things began to happen."

"It is possible. Perhaps a priest is most needed where there is trouble, and my mission is not always peace. One looks forward to the time when lust and greed and cruelty shall no longer rule the hearts of men, but it has not come yet."

Walthew lighted the cigarette his host passed over to him. Though Father Agustin had told him nothing new and his manner was by no means dramatic, he felt impressed. The quiet priest in his shabby cassock and clumsy, raw-hide shoes, had somehow a dominating personality. It was hard to tell what part he took in the revolution, but even if it were not directly active, Walthew thought him a moral force that must be reckoned with.

For a time nothing was said. There was no sound in the room except the ticking of the clock, and it seemed to Walthew that the house had a deserted feeling; he imagined that there was nobody in it except themselves. He grew angry and pitiful by turns as he glanced at Blanca. It was a hateful task she had been given, but he saw that she meant to carry it out. He wanted to get on, because Grahame might be in danger, but he could not leave until the despatch-carrier came. One could trust Father Agustin, but Walthew felt that he must be on hand.