by Louis Tracy
CHAPTER II
TIME _VERSUS_ ETERNITY
Henceforth Maseden concentrated all his faculties on the successfulperformance of the trick which might win him clear of the castle of SanJuan. Nothing in the wide world mattered less to him than that thenewly-made bride should stoop to sign the register after he had done so,or that by turning to address Steinbaum he was deliberately throwingaway the opportunity thus afforded of learning her surname.
When an avowed enemy first broached the subject of this extraordinarymarriage, he had made a bitter jest on the use in real life of awell-worn histrionic situation. And now, perforce, he had become anactor of rare merit. Each look, each word must lead up to the grandclimax. The penalty of failure was not the boredom of an audience, butdeath; such a "curtain" would sharpen the dullest wits, and Maseden, ifwholly innocent of stage experience hitherto, was not dull.
He scored his first point while the bride was signing her name. Beamingon Steinbaum, he said cheerfully:
"I bargained for money, Shylock. You've had your pound of flesh. Whereare my ducats?"
Steinbaum produced a ten-dollar bill. He even forced a smile. Seeminglyhe was anxious to keep the prisoner in this devil-may-care mood.
"Not half enough!" cried Maseden, and he broke into Spanish.
"Hi, my gallant _caballeros_, isn't there another squad in the _patio_?"
"_Si, senor!_" cried several voices.
Even these crude, half-caste soldiers revealed the Latin sense of thedramatic and picturesque. They appreciated the American's cavalier air.That morning's doings would lose naught in the telling when the storyspread through the cafes of Cartagena.
And what a story they would have to tell! Little could they guess itsscope, its sensations yet to come.
"Very well, then! At least another ten-spot, Steinbaum.... But, mindyou, sergeant, not a drop till the volley is fired! You might miss, youknow!"
The man whom he addressed as sergeant eyed the two notes with an amiablegrin.
"You will feel nothing, senor--we promise you that," he said wondering,perhaps, why the prisoner did not bestow the largesse at once.
"Excellent! Lead on, friend! I want my last few minutes to myself."
"There are some documents to complete," put in Steinbaum hastily, with aquick hand-flourish to the notary.
Senor Porilla spread two legal-looking parchments on the table.
"These are conveyances of your property to your wife," he explained. "Iam instructed to see that everything is done in accordance with the lawsof the Republic. By these deeds you--"
"Hand over everything to the lady. Is _that_ it? I understand. Where doI sign? Here? Thank you. And here? Nothing else ... Mrs. Maseden, I havegiven you my name and all my worldly goods. Pray make good use of bothendowments.... Now, I demand to be left alone."
Without so much as a farewell glance at his wife, who, to keep herselffrom falling, was leaning on the table, he strode off in the directionof the corridor into which his cell opened. It was a vital part of hisscheme that he should enter first.
The jailer would have left the door open. Maseden was determined that itshould be closed.
Captain Gomez's tight boots pinched his toes cruelly as he walked, buthe recked little of that minor inconvenience at the moment. In four orfive rapid paces he reached the doorway and passed through it. There heturned with his right hand on the door itself, and his left hand,carrying the helmet, raised in a parting salute. He smiled most affably,and, of set purpose, spoke in Spanish.
"Good-by, senora!" he said. "Farewell, gentlemen! I shall remember thispleasant gathering as long as I live!"
The half-caste was at his prisoner's side, and enjoying the episodethoroughly. He would swill his share of the wine, of course, and thehour of the _siesta_ should find him comfortably drunk.
Maseden flourished his left hand again, and the plumed helmettemporarily obscured the jailer's vision. The door swung on its hinges.The lock clashed. In the same instant the American's clenched right fistlanded on the half-caste's jaw, finding with scientific accuracy thecluster of nerves which the world of pugilism terms "the point."
It was a perfect blow, clean and hard, delivered by an athlete. Out ofthe tail of his eye, Maseden had seen _where_ to hit. He knew _how_ tohit already, and put every ounce of his weight, each shred of his boxingknowledge, into that one punch.
It had to be a complete "knock-out," or his plan miscarried. A cry, astruggle, a revolver shot, would have brought a score of assailantsthundering on each door.
As it happened, however, the hapless Spaniard collapsed as though hewere struck dead by heart-failure or apoplexy. Maseden caught the inertbody before it reached the stone floor, and carried it swiftly into thecell. Improvising a gag out of his discarded pajamas, he bound thehalf-caste's hands and feet together behind his back, utilizing theman's own leather belt for the purpose.
These things were done swiftly but without nervous haste. The veryessence of the plan was the conviction that no forward step should betaken without making sure that the prior moves were complete andthorough.
He had detached from the jailer's belt a chain carrying a bunch ofkeys and the revolver in its leather holster. Before slipping thislatter over the belt he was wearing, he examined it. Though somewhatold-fashioned, it seemed to be thoroughly serviceable, and held sixcartridges with bull-nose bullets of heavy caliber.
Then he searched the unconscious man's pockets for cigarettes andmatches. Here he encountered an unforeseen delay. Every Spaniard carrieseither cigarettes or the materials for rolling them, but this fellowseemed to be an exception.
Now, a cigarette formed an almost indispensable item in Maseden'sscheme; but time was even more precious, and he was about to abandon thesearch when he noticed that one button-hole of the jailer's tunic wasfar more frayed than any other. He tore open the coat, and found bothcigarettes and matches in an inside breast pocket.
Not one man in a million, in similar conditions, would have beencool-headed enough to observe such a trivial detail as a frayedbutton-hole.
Next he examined the bunch of keys, and came to the conclusion, rightlyas it transpired, that the same large key fitted the locks of bothdoors; which, however, were heavily barred by external draw-bolts.
Jamming on the helmet--like the glittering boots, it was a size toosmall--he lowered the chin-strap, lighted a cigarette, and limpedquickly along the corridor towards the _patio_, which filled a squareequal in size to the area of the great hall.
As he left the cell he heard the half-caste's breathing become moreregular. The man would soon recover his senses. Would the gag proveeffective? Maseden dared not wait to make sure.
He could have induced a more lasting silence, but even life itself mightbe purchased too dearly; he took the risk of a speedy uproar.
Unlocking the door, with a confident rattling of keys and chain, heshouted:
"Hi, guards! Draw the bolts!"
The soldiers in the _patio_ were ready for some such summons, though thehour was slightly in advance of the time fixed for the American'sexecution, so the order was obeyed with alacrity. Maseden appeared inthe doorway, taking care that the door did not swing far back. He blew agreat cloud of smoke; growled over his shoulder: "I'll return in fiveminutes," pulled the door to, and swaggered past the waiting troops, notforgetting to salute as they shouldered their rifles.
A long time afterwards he learned that he actually owed his escape toCaptain Ferdinando Gomez's tight boots. One of the men was observant,and inclined to be skeptical.
"Who's that?" he said. "Not el Capitan Ferdinando, I'll swear!"
"Idiot!" grinned another. "Look at his limp! He pinches his toes till hecan hardly walk."
At the gateway, or porch, leading to the _patio_, stood a sentry, who,luckily, was gazing seaward. Maseden conserved the cigarette for anothervolume of smoke, and pulled down the chin-strap determinedly.
He got beyond this dragon without any difficulty. Indeed, the man wastaken by surpri
se, and only noticed him when he had gone by.
Maseden was now in a graveled square. Behind him, and to the left, stoodthe time-darkened walls of the old Spanish fortress. In front, brokenonly by a line of trees and the squat humps of six antiquated cannons,sparkled the blue expanse of the Pacific. To the right lay the port, thenew town, and such measure of freedom as he might win.
He had yet to pass the main entrance to the castle, where, in additionto a sentry, would surely be stationed some sharp-eyed servants, eachand all on the _qui vive_ at that early hour, and stirred to unusualactivity by the morning's news, because Cartagena regarded a change ofpresident by means of a revolution as a sort of movable holiday.
At this crisis, luck befriended him. In the shade of the trees oppositethe main gate was an orderly holding a horse. The animal's trappingsshowed that it did not belong to a private soldier, and the fact thatthe man stood to attention as Maseden approached seemed to indicate thatwhich was actually the fact--the charger belonged to none other than thepresident's _aide-de-camp_.
Fortune seldom bestows her favors in what the casino-jargon of MonteCarlo describes as "intermittent sequences," or, in plain language,alternate _coups_ of red and black, successive strokes of good and badluck. The fickle goddess rather inclines to runs on a color. Havingbrought Maseden to the very brink of the grave, she had decided to helphim now.
As it turned out, Gomez's soldier servant had been injured during theovernight disturbance, and the deputy was a newcomer.
He saluted, held bridle and stirrup while Maseden mounted, and strolledcasually across the square to inquire whether he ought to wait or goback to his quarters. He succeeded in puzzling the very sergeant who wasmentally contriving the best means of securing the lion's, orsergeant's, share of twenty dollars' worth of wine.
"Captain Gomez has not gone out," snapped the calculator. "Get out ofthe way! Don't stand there like the ears of a donkey! I have occupation.The Senor Steinbaum is putting a lady into his car, and she is veryill."
So the trooper was unceremoniously brushed aside. A little later hemight have reminded the sergeant of the folly of counting chickensbefore the eggs are hatched.
Maseden was a first-rate horseman, but, owing to the discomfort ofexcruciatingly tight boots and a wobbly helmet, he did not enjoy thefirst half mile of a fast gallop down the winding road which he wasobliged to follow before he could strike into the country. Beneath, tothe left, and on a plateau in front, were respectively the ancient andmodern sections of Cartagena. But, having succeeded thus far, he hadmade up his mind inflexibly as to the course he would pursue.
He meant to reach his own ranch, twelve miles inland, within the hour.He reckoned that, in the easy-going South American way, it would not beoccupied as yet by an armed guard. An officer had rummaged among hispapers that morning, but came away with the others.
In any event, in that direction, and there only, lay any real chance ofultimate safety.
On his estate there were two men at least in whom he might place trust;and even if he could not enter the house, one of them might obtain forhim the clothes and money without which he had not the remotest prospectof getting away alive from the Republic of San Juan.
He had pocketed Steinbaum's twenty dollars in order to hire a horse, butthe unwitting hospitality of Captain Gomez had provided him with abetter animal than was to be picked up at the nearest _posada_. Indeed,with the exception of an automobile, a luxury that was few and farbetween in Cartagena, he could not have secured a swifter or morereliable conveyance than this very steed, which would cover the twelvemiles in less than an hour, and had also saved him a quarter of anhour's running walk, an experience savoring of Chinese torture whenundertaken in tight boots.
The notion of possible pursuit by a party of soldiers in a car hadbarely occurred to him when he heard the rapid panting of an automobilein the rear.
He slackened pace, took a shorter grip of the reins, and loosened therevolver in its case. Flight was ridiculous, unless he made acrosscountry; a last resource, involving a fatal loss of time.
He took nothing for granted. Steinbaum was one of the half-dozencar-owners in Cartagena, and this was surely he, escorting Senor Porillaand the lady back to the town.
They might pass him without recognition. If they didn't, he would shootSteinbaum and put a bullet into a tire. There would be no half measures.Suarez and his ally had declared war on him to the death, and war theywould have without stint or quarter.
It was a ticklish moment when the fast-running car drew near. Masedenaffected to bend over and examine the horse's fore action, as though hesuspected lameness or a loose shoe. He gave one swift underlook into thelimousine as it sped by and fancied he saw Porilla, seated with hisback to the engine, bending forward.
That was all. The car raced on and was speedily lost in a dust-cloud.
So far, so good. He was dodging peril in the hairbreadth fashionpopularly ascribed to warriors on a stricken field. Yet his mount washardly in a canter again before he was plunged without warning into themost ticklish dilemma of all.
Steinbaum's car had just turned to the left, where the road bifurcated afew hundred yards ahead, when another car came flying down the otherroad--that which the fugitive himself must take for nearly half a mile;and this second menace harbored no less a personage than Don EnricoSuarez, president of the Republic of San Juan!
It was an open car, too, and the president was seated alone in thetonneau.
Maseden jumped to the instant conclusion that his enemy was hurrying towitness his execution, probably to jeer at him for having ventured tocross the predestined path of a conqueror. But, even though he passed,Suarez would know that the gaily bedizened horseman was not hisglittering _aide-de-camp_.
To permit the president to reach the Castle meant the beginning of anirresistible pursuit within five minutes. However, that considerationdid not bother the Vermonter if for no better reason than that he wasdetermined it should not come into play.
He smiled thoughtfully, adjusted the helmet once more, and voiced hissentiments aloud.
"Good!" he said. "This time, Enrico, you and I square accounts!"
Pulling up, he took the middle of the road, wheeling the horse "halfleft," and holding up his right hand. The chauffeur saw him, slackenedspeed, and finally halted within a distance of a few feet. From first tolast, the man regarded the newcomer as being Captain Gomez. Thewind-screen was up, and the roads were dust-laden, so he could not seewith absolute accuracy. Moreover, events followed each other so rapidlythat he was given no chance to correct an erroneous first impression.
The car being stopped, Maseden moved on, passing by the left. Drawingthe revolver, he fired at the front right-hand tire at such close rangethat it was impossible to miss. The reports of the weapon and thebursting tube were simultaneous.
The next shot would have lodged in the president's heart if the startledhorse had not swerved. As it was, quite a nasty hole was torn in thepresidential anatomy; Suarez, himself fumbling for an automatic pistol,sank back in the tonneau a severely if not mortally wounded man.
For one fateful instant, the eyes of the two had met and clashed, andrecognition was mutual.
A third bullet plowed through the back right-hand tire, and Masedengalloped off, the horse being only too eager to get away from theracket.
The American did not look behind to ascertain what the chauffeur wasdoing. It really did not matter a great deal. Speed and direction werethe paramount conditions during the next fifty minutes. The die was castnow beyond all hope of revocation. He was at war with the Republic, and,although he had rendered its citizens a valuable service in shootingtheir rascally president, they might not regard the incident in itsproper light until a period far too late to benefit the philanthropist.
As a matter of fact, interesting historically and otherwise, thechauffeur was convinced that Captain Ferdinando Gomez had assassinatedhis master, and said so, with many oaths, when he summoned assistancefrom a neighboring house. It may
also be placed on record here thatabout the same time the gallant _aide-de-camp_ had come to suspect thathis beautiful uniform, if not returned promptly, might be sadly smirchedby a score of bullets, with accessories; and was kicking up a fearfulrow because no one could get at the jailer and rescue that gala costumebefore the prisoner was led forth to execution.
In a word, the Republic's presidential affairs were greatly mixed, andremained in inextricable confusion until long after Maseden drew rein ona blown horse at the gate of his own _estancia_.
The ranch, known as Los Andes, and one of the finest estates in SanJuan, provided the original bone of contention between Maseden andSuarez. It had been built up, during thirty lazy years, by a distantcousin of Suarez, an elderly bachelor, who grew coffee and maize, andreared stock in a haphazard way.
Seven years earlier he had met the young American in New York, took aliking to him, and offered to employ him as overseer while teaching himthe business. The pupil soon became the instructor. Scientific methodswere introduced, direct markets were tapped, and the produce of theestate was quadrupled within a few seasons.
Then the older man died, and left the ranch and its contents to hisassistant. There was not much money--the capital was sunk in stock andimprovement--so a number of free and independent burghers of Cartagenareceived smaller amounts than they expected.
Suarez was one of the beneficiaries, seven in all. Six took thesituation calmly. He alone was irreconcilable, and blustered about legalproceedings, only desisting when persuaded that he had no case, even forthe venal courts of San Juan.
And now, on that sultry January morning, the lawful owner of the LosAndes ranch, while awaiting the appearance of a peon, who, he knew, wastending some cattle in a byre behind the lodge, was wondering whether ornot he might urge a tired charger into a final canter to the door of hisown house without bringing about a pitched battle when he arrived there.
At last came Pedro--every second man in South America is named after thechief of the Apostles--a brown, lithe, Indian-looking person. But he wasSpanish enough in the expression of his emotions.
"By the eleven thousand virgins!" he cried joyously, after a first stareof incredulity, for the eyes rolled in his head at sight of Maseden'sgarb, "it is not true, then, master, that you are a prisoner!"
"Who says that I am?" inquired Maseden.
"They say it up there at the _estancia_, senor," and Pedro jerked athumb towards an avenue of mahogany trees.
"They say? Who say?"
Pedro was scared, but Maseden had taught his helpers to answertruthfully.
"Old Lopez said it, senor. He told me the president's men had chargedhim to touch nothing till they returned."
Maseden's heart throbbed more furiously at that reply than at aughtwhich had befallen him during the few pregnant hours since dawn.
"Those rascals have gone, then?" he said, so placidly that the peon wasbewildered.
"_Si, senor._ Did they not go with you?"
"Yes. I was not sure of all.... Close and lock the gate, Pedro. Leaveother things. Saddle your mustang and mount guard at the bend in theavenue, from which you can watch the Cartagena road. If you see horses,or an automobile, coming this way, ride to the house and tell me."
"_Si, senor._"
Pedro hurried off. Maseden rode on at the best pace the spent horse wascapable of. He might lose a potential fortune--though the shooting ofSuarez should remove the worst of the hostile influences arrayed againsthim--but surely he could now save his life.
He had never realized how dear life was at twenty-eight until thatmorning. Hitherto he had given no thought to it. Now he wanted to livetill he was eighty!