A NEST OF CONSPIRATORS
Since his arrival O’Hara had felt that Tom Whalen was watching him.
In his short walks out into the waste a few miles from the place, he
knew that he was always followed by this burly giant. Even in the night
watches he had been wakened by the consciousness that this man was
peering at him intently and suspiciously.
Not only so, but every attempt of O’Hara’s to get a note or message
sent to his nephew, Danny Dexter, had been futile. The Japanese was
the only one who had left the place. He had the habit of slipping
quietly away in the huge motor car, especially toward evening he was
wont to start, and usually his path lay in the direction of the border,
far to the south. Often O’Hara lay awake into the small hours of the
morning, disturbed by the steady stare of Tom Whalen and listening for
the hum of the returning motor car. He was never quite sure of hearing
it, but always when the morning came there was Jo, the Japanese
man-of-all-work, servile and alert and quiet as ever.
There was evidently no hope of any message reaching Danny from that
quarter.
As time went on, O’Hara’s perplexity, instead of diminishing, became
deeper and more acute than ever. True, there had been no visitors to
the ranch, and as far as he could see, there was little likelihood that
his presence in this remote spot would be discovered. In this respect
Providence had been kind to him. What disturbed him most of all was
the sepulchral silence of the place--the air of mystery that seemed to
brood over the lives of the few inhabitants. Hour after hour O’Hara
pondered the matter, but the mystery was still as clouded as ever. No
summons had yet come to him from the bungalow occupied by Brown and his
beautiful consort, nor had he been able to penetrate the reserve of the
scowling Tom Whalen or the sleek, cat-footed Jap.
O’Hara’s mind was still in a state of turmoil, when, a few days later,
an incident happened that shook his equanimity to its very foundation.
The day in question had been hot and sweltering, and in O’Hara’s case,
had been followed by a sleepless night. After hours of tossing about,
he had risen from his couch, making his way through the darkness to
the unlocked door. Flinging it open, a flood of pale moonlight poured
into the room. A silvery sheen enveloped the slumbering buildings of
the ranch, making them stand out in ghostly silhouette against the
moon-lit background of sandy waste. As O’Hara softly closed the door
behind him, a deep continuous snore from the opposite side of the room
informed him that Tom Whalen had fallen into a profound sleep, and was
likely to remain dead to the world for some hours at least.
The clean, crisp night air caused the blood to tingle in O’Hara’s
veins. He surveyed the peaceful prospect a moment, then started on a
brisk stroll among the various outbuildings, stopping now and then to
fill his lungs with the glorious desert air.
Passing the odd-looking garage, he noticed that the doors were flung
wide open, as though Jo, the Jap chauffeur, expected to return with
the car before morning. He had retraced his steps to the door of his
sleeping-room, and was about to woo sleep for a second time when the
distant chugging of a motor car sounded on his ears.
“That’s only Jo,” he said to himself. “I wonder what the close-mouthed
Oriental does on those lonesome night trips?”
But his own question caused him to smile. Jo’s night excursions were
certainly mysterious, to say the least, but not more so than a hundred
other things about the ranch that had risen to perplex him. Indeed, he
was obliged to confess to himself that he had found out next to nothing
about the real life of the strange group in which he was placed.
By this time the motor car had drawn much closer to the ranch. The
steady chug-chug of the escaping gas, magnified tenfold by the vast
impressive silence of the night, fell on the ear of the listener like a
succession of sledge-hammer blows on a blacksmith’s anvil. O’Hara crept
into a convenient patch of shadow, and waited for the car to pass on
its way to the garage. But before coming into his angle of vision, the
huge machine swerved abruptly to the right and made directly for the
ranch-house.
Curious and interested now, the concealed man cautiously stepped forth
from his hiding-place and peered round the corner of the building.
The machine had come to a stop at the door of the Brown bungalow.
Straining his eyes, O’Hara was able to make out several blank shapes
that descended from the tonneau and noiselessly entered the house. A
fraction of a minute later the chugging recommenced as the car was
driven over the quarter-mile that lay between the house and the garage.
As O’Hara stood in the shadow, reflecting on the import of what he
had seen, a strange feeling came over him--a sense that important
events were impending in which he was somehow involved. He was about
to dismiss the thought as an idle fancy when he noticed a tiny
flicker of light which same through a slit in the drawn curtains of
the ranch-house. Suddenly a daring thought gave him pause. Should he
attempt to carry out the hare-brained plan that had gripped him so
suddenly? Dare he do so?
For several moments he stood lost in reflection. Then, James O’Hara did
a curious thing--a thing that might well have aroused a spectator’s
curiosity, had a spectator been there to observe it. Though already
lightly clad, he noiselessly entered the room where the giant Tom
Whalen still lay breathing heavily. Hastily disrobing, he garbed
himself in khaki shirt and trousers, which were almost mustard-color
from many washings, and left the room again as quietly as he came
in. Softly but swiftly, he made his way to the rear of the building,
keeping in shadow as much as possible. Then, striking out on hands
and knees in a direction at right angles from the beckoning gleam of
light, he stopped when he had put a distance of about a hundred yards
between himself and his starting-point. The moon continued to beat down
on the yellow sands as the creeping figure, visible only as a dark
retreating mass against an amber background, suddenly dropped flat on
the ground and was lost to view. The khaki costume was now no longer
distinguishable, but blended perfectly with the sand, which stretched
out for miles on every side in little flats and hillocks.
Resting in this position a few moments, and raising his head now and
then to ascertain whether he had been observed, O’Hara started to crawl
slowly through the sand in the direction of the bungalow. Fifteen
minutes later he had gained the side of the building whence the flicker
of light had come.
A thrill of satisfaction gripped him for a moment as he realized that
thus far his plan had been successful. And now, as he was considering
what further measures to take, the sound of voices engaged in earnest
conversation floated out from a window just above him.
A deep voice that quavered with suppressed emotion came to his ears,
and a tremor passed down O’Hara’s spine as he realized that his
employer was speaking.
“Listen to me, Schwartz,” the commanding voice was saying. “I tell you,
this thing must be done. Understand? It _must_. The Mexican government
is friendly to Germany, and would like nothing better than kicking
the hated Yankees out. Villa is with us, and will do what we say. But
he must be paid. It will take money--lots of it. But later on we will
get it back with interest--yes, double interest, and triple interest.
Germany must line her pockets, too. The time to do it is now. Later, we
will not have so good a chance. Why, man,” and here the voice held a
confidential note, “the Fatherland is interested in our success. We are
simply carrying out instructions!”
“Ach!” ejaculated the awed listener. “Ve must all help der Vaterland.
Ve must all be good Chermans.”
These sentiments must have fallen on grateful ears, for Brown’s next
words were uttered in a friendly tone that warmed the heart of his
confederate:
“Schwartz, you are a true son of Deutschland. It is men like you who
must again make the Fatherland great!”
The pleased Schwartz drank in the words of appreciation eagerly,
emitting meantime an enthusiastic “_ja! ja!_” of assent.
“Millions of dollars are to be had in Mexico,” continued the speaker.
“Mines, oil lands--everything. But the hated, money-loving Yankees have
gobbled up everything they could lay their hands on. But we have found
a way to beat them. Our German friends, who have suffered so much in
this hated country, have given us ample funds. We have much influence
with the government at Mexico City. Simply pull the wires--the thing
is done! Our ambassador will see to it. But there is much work for all
of us. Never shall it be said that Germans accepted the leavings of
Americans. Rather will we all go down in destruction!”
As this conversation was proceeding, a tense-muscled man stood outside
beneath the window, listening with bated breath to every word that
fell from the plotters’ lips. James O’Hara was deeply stirred.
American rights were menaced. So much was plain from the words of the
conspirators. That American lives would be endangered, if not lost, was
almost certain.
Again and again, as the plot was more fully developed in his hearing,
the concealed man struggled silently with himself to keep down the
rising flood of anger that threatened to explode and reveal his
presence to the Germans. He was a lover of his country, though, by an
unlucky stroke of fate, a fugitive from his country’s justice. By every
consideration of manhood he was bound to uphold the honor and dignity
and safety of America. He was an American citizen, and these were the
obligations that citizenship imposed.
O’Hara fought down the angry outburst. He realized that his best
course of action lay in keeping cool. The thing to do was to learn all
he could about their plans. Then would he be the better prepared for
action when the time for action arrived.
Meanwhile, in short, rapid sentences, Brown was conveying his
instructions to the other, who was plainly a subordinate figure:
“First, you must deliver these papers to Herr Schmidt, the German
consul. He will supply you with the necessary funds. You will then
meet Villa’s representative at the designated spot. You will convey
my instructions to him, and urge immediate action. You will in turn
receive his latest report. I will send for this in a week’s time. I
have here on the ranch an escaped criminal named O’Hara. He knows
nothing of our work. He suspects nothing. You are to deliver the sealed
papers to him in Mexican Juarez, and arrange to have him sent back over
the border. Now, we understand one another. Do not fail.”
The interview was over.
A few minutes passed without any further sounds from the interior of
the house.
Then a slight chugging sound informed O’Hara that the motor car with
its Jap chauffeur was again on its way to the house, doubtless to carry
the German emissary toward the border. The front door opened, a single
dark figure glided out, the tonneau door closed, and the huge machine
rolled rapidly away. Then, silence.
Quivering from the astounding adventure through which he had just
passed, O’Hara made his way back to his sleeping-room. He hastily shed
the few light garments that covered him and sank into bed, but the
amazing events of the night were too recent to allow any hope of sleep.
In the quiet of the night, as he reviewed his experiences from the day
of his arrival at the ranch, O’Hara was able to understand many things
that hitherto had seemed to border on the mysterious. The remembrance
of his first meeting with Henry Brown, the military bearing of the
latter, the careful diction with just the merest trace of a German
accent, the nightly comings and goings of the Japanese chauffeur, the
aloofness and secrecy that characterized the actions of every member of
the ranch from the very beginning--all these things, when analyzed in
the light of the conversation he had overheard between Brown and his
visitor, lost their cloak of mystery and became links in a chain of
evidence that held fast at every point.
The more O’Hara thought of it, the more certain he became that he had
stumbled across that long-sought-for outpost of German intrigue that
was beneath so many of the Mexican troubles. For many months Uncle Sam
had known of the existence of such activity, but diligent search had
failed to trace it to its source. Throughout the war, reports poured
into the government concerning the operations of a crafty German band
that was engaged in sowing seeds of hatred against the Americans.
Though the armistice had brought a decided let-up in this activity,
there was still evidence of a deeply-laid plot to injure the United
States and libel its aims in the Latin republic.