OF A GIRL HELD FOR RANSOM AND OF A TOAST DRUNK BY ONE INFATUATED
Jim Kendric returned straightway to the rooms allotted to him and
Barlow, hoping to find his companion there. They must talk together,
they must understand each the other; they must know, and know without
delay, just in what and to what lengths friend could count on friend.
To the uttermost, Kendric would have said a week ago. Now he only
pondered the matter, recalling that in some ways Barlow did not seem
quite the old mate.
He found the rooms empty and threw himself into one of the big chairs
to wait. As he regarded the situation it had little enough to
recommend itself to a man of his stamp. He had not the least desire to
meddle in any way with Mexican revolutionary politics; upheavals would
come and come again, no doubt, for thus would a great country in due
time work out its own salvation. But it was no affair of his. This
fomenting nucleus into which he and Barlow had come was, he estimated,
foredoomed to failure and worse; one fine day Ruiz Rios and Fernando
Escobar and their outlaw followings would find themselves with their
backs to an adobe wall and their faces set toward a line of rifles.
And Zoraida Castelmar had best think upon that, too. For turbulent
times had borne women along with men to a quick undoing.
All this was clear to him. But here clarity gave way to groping
uncertainty. Less than anything else did he have a stomach for being
bottled up in any house in the world, Zoraida's house least of all, and
denied the freedom of the open. It looked as though he, who had never
done another man's command, must now do a girl's. At call she had
fifty, perhaps a hundred retainers, ugly-looking devils all and no
lovers of Americans who came unbidden into their country.
"There's always a way out of a mess like this," he told himself,
determined to find it. "But right now I don't see it."
There was also the lodestone toward which he and Barlow had steered and
which had drawn Fernando Escobar. And that amazing creature who coolly
laid claim to the royal blood of the Montezumas, laid claim as well to
their treasure trove. Just how any of them could make a move toward it
without her knowledge baffled him. And hence, more than ever before,
did his desire mount to get his own hands on it.
When presently Barlow entered, Kendric looked up at him thoughtfully.
Barlow bore along with him a subdued air of excitement.
"You've just left Rios?" asked Kendric.
"Yes." Barlow came in and closed the door, looking quickly and
questioningly at his friend. He appeared to hesitate, then said
hurriedly: "There are big things ahead, old Headlong! Big!"
"Shoot," answered Kendric sharply. "What's the play, man?"
Again Barlow hesitated, plainly in doubt just how far Kendric might be
in sympathy with him.
"It wouldn't make you mad to fill your pockets, Headlong, would it?" he
asked. "Bulgin' full? And you wouldn't mind a scrap or two and a blow
or two in the job, would you?"
"Watch your step, Twisty, old timer," said Kendric. "Rios has been
talking revolution to you, has he? Sometimes an uprising down here is
a nasty mess that it's easier to get into than out of again. And, if
we get our hooks on the loot that brought us down here, why should we
want to mix it with the federal government?"
Barlow began tugging at his forelock.
"I'm up a tree, Jim," he muttered at last. "Clean up a tree."
"Then look out you light on your feet instead of on your head when you
decide to come down. It would be easy to make a mistake right now."
"Yes, easy; dead easy.--Old Headlong counseling caution!" Barlow
laughed but with little genuine mirth.
"I want a straight talk with you, Twisty," said Kendric soberly. "I
for one don't like the lay-out here and I'm going to break for the
open. You and I have fallen among a pack of damned thieves, to draw it
mild. It strikes me we'd better understand each other."
"Right!" cried Barlow eagerly. "Let's talk straight from the shoulder."
But events, or rather Zoraida Castelmar who sought to usurp destiny's
prerogatives here, ruled otherwise. There came a quiet rap at the
door, then the voice of one of the housemaids, saying:
"La Señorita Zoraida desires immediately to speak with Señor Barlow."
Barlow, just easing himself into a chair, jumped up.
"Coming," he called.
Kendric, too, sprang up, his hand locking hard upon Barlow's arm.
"Twisty," he said, "hold on a minute. The house isn't on fire."
"Well?" Barlow's impatience glared out of his eyes. "What is it?"
"I've got a very large, life-sized suspicion that it would be just as
well if you sent back word you couldn't come. At least, not until
we've had our talk."
"She said immediately," said Barlow. And then, "You don't want me to
see her? Why?"
"Because, it you want to know, she isn't good for you. She'll seek to
draw you in on this fool scheme of hers, and if you don't look out
you'll do just what she says do. There never was a mere woman like
her. She's uncanny, man! She will give you the same line of mad talk
she gave me, she will make you the same sorts of offers----"
"You've seen her then? Tonight? While I was out with Rios you were
with her?"
"Yes. And not because I found any pleasure in her company, either."
Barlow jerked free, laughing his disbelief, his look at once unpleasant
and suspicious.
"Tell that to the marines," he jeered. He threw the door open and went
out. In the hall Kendric could hear his steps sounding quick and
eager. Kendric returned to his chair, perplexed. Then again he sprang
up, throwing out his hands, shaking his shoulders as though to rid them
of a troublesome weight.
"Too much thinking isn't good for a man," he told himself lightly.
"The game's made; let her roll!"
He took a cigar from the table, lighted it and passed through the bath
and adjoining room. A door opened to the outer corridor. He stepped
out upon the flagstones and strolled down the aisle flanked on one side
by the adobe wall of the house, on the other by the white columns and
arches. The night was fine, clear and starlit; the fragrance of a
thousand flowers lay heavy upon the-air; the babble of the outdoor
fountain made merry music. He left the stone floor for the graveled
driveway and put his head back to send a little puff of smoke upward
toward the flash of stars.
"It's a good old land, at that," he mused. "Big and clean and wide
open."
He strolled on, looking to right and left. Before him the gardens
appeared deserted. But there were patches of inpenetrable blackness
under the wider flung trees, and it seemed likely, from what Zoraida
had said, that some of her rabble were watching him. If so, he deemed
it as well to know for certain. So he kept straight on toward the
whitewashed wall glimpsed through the foliage. He came to it and
stopped; it was little higher than his head and would be no obstacle in
itself. He shot out his hands, gripped the top and went up.
And still no one to dispute his right to do as he pleased. He sat for
a moment atop the wall, looking about him curiously. He marked that at
each of the corners of the enclosure to be seen from where he sat, was
a little square tower rising a dozen feet higher than the wall. In
each tower a lamp burned. From the nearest one came the voices of two
men. Tied near this tower and outside the wall were two horses; he saw
them vaguely and heard the clink of bridle chains. Saddled horses.
There would be saddled horses at each of the four towers; night and
day, if Zoraida's talk were not mere boasting. The temptation to know
just how strict was the guard kept moved him to drop to the ground, on
the outside of the wall. He moved quickly, but his feet had not struck
the grass when a sharp whistle cut through the still night. The
whistle came from somewhere in the shadows within the enclosure.
Kendric stood stone still. But had he been ready for flight he knew
now that he could not have gone twenty paces before they stopped him.
Where he had heard the voices of two men he now heard an overturned
chair, jingle of spur and thud of boots, a sharp command. He saw two
figures run out on the wall and leap down into the saddles just below.
And he knew that in the other towers there had been like readiness and
like action. For already he saw four mounted men and needed no telling
that each man carried a rifle.
He climbed back on the wall, his curiosity for the moment satisfied.
And there he sat until one of the riders galloped to him. The man came
close and said gruffly:
"It is not permitted to cross the wall. It would be best if Señor
Americano remembered. And went back to the house."
"Right-o!" agreed Kendric cheerily. "I just wanted to be sure,
_compadre_," and he turned and dropped back into the garden. "She
holds the cards, ace, face and trump!" he conceded sweepingly. "But
the game's to play." And, as again he strolled along the driveway, his
thoughts were not unpleasant. For what had he come adventuring into
Lower California if he weren't ready for what the day might bring? The
situation had its zest. He wondered how many men were hidden about the
garden, like the fellow who had watched him and whistled? How many
were watching him now? He reflected as he walked on, but his
conjectures were not so deep as to make him oblivious of his cigar. On
the whole, for the night, he was content.
Just as he turned the corner of the house a rider, coming from the
double front gate, raced down the driveway and flung himself to the
ground. A figure stepped out from the shadowy corridor and Kendric was
near enough to recognize the second figure as that of Captain Escobar,
even before he heard his sharp:
"Is that you, Ramorez? What luck?"
"Si, Señor Capitan. It is Ramorez. And the luck is fine!"
"You have her?" Escobar's tone was exultant.
"Just outside. Sancho is bringing her. I am here for orders. Where
shall we take her?"
"Here. Into the house. Señorita Castelmar knows everything and is
with us."
Ramorez swung back up into the saddle and spurred away, gone into the
darkness under the trees toward the gate. Kendric stood where he was,
receptive for any bit of understanding which might be vouchsafed him.
He was satisfied with his position in the shadows; glad when Escobar
stepped out so that the lamp light from within streamed across his
face. Actually the man's hard eyes gloated.
It was only a moment until Ramorez returned, another man riding knee
and knee with him, a led horse following them. It was this animal and
its rider that held Kendric's eyes. In the saddle was what appeared a
weary little figure, drooping forward, clutching miserably at the horn
of the saddle with both hands. As she came nearer and there was more
light he saw the bowed head, made out that it was hatless, even saw how
the hair was all tumbled and ready to fall about her shoulders.
"You will get down, señorita." It was Escobar's voice, gloating like
his eyes.
The listless figure in the saddle made no reply, seemed bereft of any
volition of its own. As Ramorez put up his hands to help her, she came
down stiffly and stood stiffly, looking about her. Kendric, to see
better, came on emerging from the shadows and stood, leaning against
the wall, drawing slowly at his cigar and awaiting the end of the
scene. So now, for the first time, he saw the girl's face as she
lifted it to look despairingly around.
"Oh," she cried suddenly, a catch in her voice, throwing out her two
arms toward Escobar. "Please, please let me go!"
The hair was falling about her face; she shook it back, still standing
with her arms outflung imploringly. Kendric frowned. The girl was too
fair for a Mexican; her hair in the lamp light was less dark than black
and might well be brown; her speech was the speech of one of his own
country.
"An American girl!" he marveled. "These dirty devils have laid their
hands on an American girl! And just a kid, at that."
With her hair down, with a trembling "Please" upon her lips, she did
not look sixteen.
"I am so tired," she begged; "I am so frightened. Won't you let me go?
Please?"
Kendric fully expected her to break into tears, so heartbroken was her
attitude, so halting were her few supplicating words. A spurt of anger
flared up in his heart; to be harsh with her was like hurting a child.
And yet he held resolutely back from interference. As yet no rude hand
was being laid on her and it would be better if she went into the house
quietly than if he should raise a flurry of wild hope in her frightened
breast and evoke an outpouring of terrified pleadings, all to no avail.
What he would have to say were best said to Escobar alone.
Slowly her arms dropped to her sides. Her look went from face to face,
resting longest on Jim Kendric's. He kept his lips tight about his
cigar, shutting back any word to raise false hope just yet. The result
was that the girl turned from him with a little shudder, seeing in him
but another oppressor. She sighed wearily and, walking stiffly, passed
to the door flung open by Ramorez and into the house. Escobar was
following her when Kendric called to him. The bandit captain muttered
but came back into the yard.
"Well, señor?" he demanded impudently. "What have you to say to me?"
"Who is that girl?" asked Kendric. "And what are you doing with her?"
Escobar laughed his open insolence.
"So you are interested? Pretty, like a flower, _no_? Well, she is not
for you, Señor Americano, though she is of your own country. She is
the daughter of a rich gentleman named Gordon, if you would know. Her
papa calls her Betty and is very fond of her. Him I have let go back
to the United States. That he may send me twenty-five thousand dollars
for Señorita Betty. Are there other questions, señor?"
"You've got a cursed high hand, Captain Escobar," muttered Kendric.
"But let me tell you something: If you touch a hair of that poor little
kid's head I'll shoot six holes square through your dirty heart." And
he passed by Escobar and went into the house.
He meant to tell the daughter of Gordon that he, too, was an American;
that Barlow, another American, was on the job; that, somehow, they
would see her through. But he was given only a fleeting glimpse of her
as she passed out through a door across the room, escorted by the
grave-eyed young woman who an hour ago had warned him not to anger
Zoraida. He saw Betty Gordon's face distinctly now; she was fair, her
hair was brown, he thought her eyes were gray. But before he could
call to her she was gone, clinging to the arm of Zoraida's maid.
"Poor little kid," muttered Kendric, staring after her. "I'd give my
hat to have her on a horse, scooting for the _New Moon_. All alone
among these pirates, with her dad the Lord knows where trying to dig up
twenty-five thousand dollars for her!"
At least she was no doubt well enough off for the night. She looked
too tired to lie awake long, no matter what her distress. He returned
to his rooms and sat down to wait again for Barlow.
When at last Barlow came Kendric knew on the instant what success
Zoraida had had with him. Twisty's eyes were shining; his head was up;
he walked briskly like a man with his plans made and his heart in them.
"You poor boob," muttered Kendric disgustedly. "Once you let a woman
get her knife in your heart you're done for."
Barlow swept up the brandy bottle and filled a glass brim full.
"To Zoraida, Queen of Lower California!" he cried ringingly. He drank
and smashed the glass upon the floor.
Kendric sighed and shook his head hopelessly. And thanked God that he
had never been the man to go mad over a pretty face.